My mama and my grandma

and the woman before-

she migrated north and fluttered some more.

With broke down wings and metal grill screams,

they beat and they bled to set me free.

Women drank the poison, toxins swimming in their veins,

all for me to end up soft, can’t take no pain.

Took three generations to break their curse

just to die, but they laid their hope down first.

I try to carry their strength upon my back-

I’m flyin’ south, flutters whisper all I lack.

Because of the women before, I will migrate-

I owe it all to them…they are my great.

Able to soar high, or at least I’ll try-

leaning on their generation’s borrowed traits.