[Intro: soft piano, Hammond pad] Tin on the counter with a dent from a fall years back Cards tucked under flour like a language I cannot unpack [Verse 1] Stroke took the words on a Thursday after lunch Left her eyes still bright and her hands hunting a bunch Of tasks that filled the kitchen like a choir in a room Now she points and I guess and the silence has perfume I opened the flour tin looking for a cup and a start Found recipe cards yellow with her looping private art Biscuits and a gravy that she never wrote in print Just a slanted hand that assumed I would always get the hint I sat on the floor with the tin like a child in storm Tried to read a measure that her voice used to warm She watched from the doorway with a smile that broke and stayed I said I got it Mama like a promise I had already made [Hook: sung soft, adult harmony] Flour tin, flour tin Handwriting in white Flour tin, flour tin Teaching me tonight Love is not a speech when the speech has gone away Love is reading cards she wrote for a different day Flour tin, flour tin Dent and a soft lid Flour tin, flour tin Keeping what she did I measure with a guess and a memory of her hands And feed her what I can from the kitchen where she stands [Verse 2] Dad keeps saying give it time like time is a kit Time is just a clock that does not care how we sit I call her sister for the biscuit trick she used to share Sister cries and says she lost that recipe to air So I invent a batch and it comes out dense and wrong Mama takes a bite and nods like the nod is a song Approval without language is a heavy kind of grace I clean the tin and put the cards back in their place Night shift at my job and I still smell the flour on my sleeve Grief is not a funeral when the person still can leave The room and come back hungry for a plate you almost know Grief is a flour tin and a hand that used to show [Double-Time Switch: stacked, no commas] Stroke took the words Thursday after lunch eyes still bright hands still hunting tasks I open flour tin find the cards yellow looping biscuits gravy slanted like a private art she left for me to start Sit on the floor read a measure that her voice used to warm she watches from the doorway smile breaks and stays I say I got it Mama like a vow I make in the dark of the heart Dad says give it time sister lost the trick I invent a batch dense and wrong she nods like a song approval without language is a grace that tears me apart Night shift smell of flour on my sleeve grief is not a funeral when she still walks in hungry for a plate that almost matches what she taught me from the start [Hook] Flour tin, flour tin Handwriting in white Flour tin, flour tin Teaching me tonight Love is not a speech when the speech has gone away Love is reading cards she wrote for a different day Flour tin, flour tin Dent and a soft lid Flour tin, flour tin Keeping what she did I measure with a guess and a memory of her hands And feed her what I can from the kitchen where she stands [Chopper Burst: triplet bounce, flow switch] Tin then the dent then the cards then the flour then the biscuits then the gravy then the slant then the guess then the doorway then the smile then the vow then the batch then the nod then the grace we invent Time then the clock then the sister then the cry then the dense then the wrong then the night then the sleeve then the plate then the hunger then the almost then the hand that she meant Stroke took the language but the kitchen kept the map in a tin with a lid and a dent and a stack of slanted private art I defend and present and invent Flour tin is a teacher when the teacher cannot speak and a daughter learns love is a recipe you rebuild from the cards when the words repent and relent [Verse 3] Months later she squeezes my wrist when gravy comes right One squeeze means good and two means pass the light We built a language out of gestures and a tin Family is a kitchen that refuses to give in [Final Hook] Flour tin, flour tin Handwriting in white Flour tin, flour tin Teaching me tonight Love is not a speech when the speech has gone away Love is reading cards she wrote for a different day Flour tin, flour tin Dent and a soft lid Flour tin, flour tin Keeping what she did I measure with a guess and a memory of her hands And feed her what I can from the kitchen where she stands [Outro: piano, Hammond fade] Tin on the counter with a dent from a fall years back Cards tucked under flour like a language I cannot unpack
