To My grandmother, who raised me

Detroit, you and me, the apartment over the dry cleaner's. You worked two jobs and you came home and you braided my hair on the kitchen floor and you sang. I am writing you a letter on a phone in 2026, a phone that costs more than your rent was. You would laugh at this phone. You would tell me to call my mother. I did. I will. I called her this morning. The braid is in my daughter's hair.