Mama D is iron wrapped in lace,
a quiet storm with a sacred grace.
Strong hands that built a legacy,
now reach in trust and turn to me.
She once held worlds within her palms,
raised generations with her calm.
A backbone strong, a spirit kind,
a brilliant, sharp, enduring mind.
She says, “I’m fine,” and stands up tall,
still proud, though time may gently call.
But I know the weight she will not name,
the quiet ache, the stubborn flame.
The world forgets what elders give,
how deeply they still long to live.
It dares to dim what’s shining still
but Mama D, she always will.
She is no burden. She’s the light.
The morning sun, the star at night.
The history in her every word
deserves to always be seen and heard.
And me … I walk this path beside,
with open hands and softened pride.
I want to help, not take control,
to offer strength, not take her role.
Some days I guide, some days I learn,
some days I simply wait my turn.
Because care, when done with love and grace,
leaves dignity in its rightful place.
Mama D gave me all I know,
taught me to rise, taught me to grow.
And now I give that care back true
not out of duty, but love earned through.
This journey, hard and beautiful,
is not about what’s practical.
It’s soul work, sacred, deeply blessed
to walk with her and give her rest.
She still belongs. She always will.
Her voice, her fire, her spirit still.
And I will stand, both proud and free
a Black woman, made whole by Mama D.