The round brown floury base,
created with kneading and rolling,
fingers veiled with glue paste,
sticking and revealing its inner face,
stringy and soft it holds on so tight,
hoping to be created into a round little
cake, why am I scared of this floury base,
its tender softness is one of many grace, it haunts
me, tears me, bounds me each day as
I try to break  this womenly chore.

Waiting waiting, the men are waiting,
hurry hurry they are starving, hands
on the ready, flames bark at me, a burn
here and another burn there, I continue.
My flesh of fingers melt into the flour,
steam from the pan rises to my eyes,
tears come stubbling but are these my cries.
Rolled and flattened, the form takes shape,
slap onto the pan to bake and bake.
My womenly chores are cooking right there,
hurry hurry the men need their share.

The round base turn a different colour,
Is it burnt or better than the one I made
earlier, some crispy some soft, im not
getting better, the men need one quick
as their masala goes colder, I stand in the
heat like a scarecrow in the wind,
doing the job I was designed to be in,
I slap the round base onto the plate and
take this beautiful form to be devoured
in bad taste.
QurraTul Anne is a  British Pakistani female, 33 and lives in Bristol. She has been writing since she was a teenager but has never thought about taking it up seriously. QurraTul works a DJ and fashion designer by day.  This is her first ever submission.

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