Like a tiara made of diamonds
her ancestors toiled for in dark
African pits under colonial rule.
Like the tip of a wave that pulled
them down under a salt bitter sea
in the transatlantic slave trade.
Like the white napkin she folds
each evening for a dinner table
folds her past into an envelope.
Forms into a bishop’s hat like
the one worn when the Church
of England trafficked humans.
Shapes a tooth on a china plate,
a fang to feed on all the untruths
guests will swallow with polite hate.