PALATE ECHO

[Verse 1]
The cassava flour chalks the ConEd bill, a fine film.
My hands trace the motion, but the muscle won't play the right reel.
Tryna find my mother's wrist-flick in this brand new apartment kitchen,
Translate a language that was never written, a sacred tradition.
The pot's from Target, the spoon is from Amazon Prime,
A sterile copy of a cadence that defied all street signs.
She never measured, just a hum and a pour from the palm,
Left a ghost in the ingredients, a silent, collected psalm.

[Chorus]
Same pot, same fire, same name on the tongue,
But the taste is a liar, the history's un-sung.
It's a palate echo, a flavor from a dream,
Torn at the seam, not quite what it seems.

[Verse 2]
I rock the Dan-Gna mask when I walk on the A-train platform,
Keep the weave of my narrative tight, protect the shape from the storm.
My boys talking points, I got a different weight in my kitchen,
A slow kind of burn, a deep-seated mission.
They see the new Js, but they don't see the sweat on my brow,
Tryna knead a direct line to a long-gone Bouaké now.
This ain't for the block, this is something they can't see,
Under a single sixty-watt bulb, it's just the flour and me.

[Spoken Interlude]
(Sound of a distant phone call, slightly distorted, warm)
"Non, chéri. You think too much. It's not in the book. C'est dans la main. The water tells you when it's enough. You listen."

[Bridge]
(Tempo slows)
And for a minute, I ain't even mad at the failure,
This ain't her kitchen, this is just the generational trailer.
This knot's my own, a thread she never had to sew,
A different hunger, a different way to grow.

[Chorus]
Same pot, same fire, same name on the tongue,
But the taste is a liar, the history's un-sung.
It's a palate echo, a flavor from a dream,
Torn at the seam, not quite what it seems.

[Outro]
It don't taste like home.
But it tastes like my own.