I ate chicken wings and chuckled.
Because chicken wings were once slave food.
Back when the “good cuts” went to the master’s table,
and we were left with scraps, bones, and bruises.
But survival makes artists out of the desperate.
We seasoned struggle, fried it crisp,
and turned into a delicacy
what was meant to mock us
The audacity—
for him to look over,
see us not just surviving
but thriving
licking our fingers in joy—
and decide he wants that too.
So now the wing has been elevated.
High-priced.
Artisan.
Deli meat for the gentrified.
Bar food for the hip.
Instagram-famous.
You need a small loan to eat what once got laughed off the plate.
The poor man can no longer afford
what he created to survive.
Because even joy seasoned with hardship
had to be taken too.
You know it’s petty
when food is involved.