We were never a family of food snobs.
We barely knew what a food snob was.
Good food was food you liked; taste meant partiality.

The stars had blessed the neighborhood
with a Po’ Folks, which later transformed
into Folks, then closed, but in my psyche

it’s still there, complete with the Po’
because I left so long ago
that I confuse the dead with the far away.

Thus, to me, my grandparents breathe.
They relish fried chicken, sweet tea,
and biscuits at a down-home place

where I’m a kid, my parents middle-aged.
I haven’t gone north nor betrayed
those beginnings. Haven’t turned gourmet

or true amateur,
and no one’s afraid to invite me to dinner
because I cook like an expert or order that way.

Where do I lodge my innocent plea?
Whatever I’ve learned, I’m still me
and want to share a table

with the people I’ll miss or who’ll miss me
when whoever’s going first goes down that street.
Together we’ll devour whatever we’re able

to ladle out. Since the stars command
that no matter our plans,
an R.S.V.P. is always a maybe,

the reasons to gather
have never been clearer.
The dinner is gravy.