Pattern

I come from a woman who writes, who came from a man who wrote. She's always been clever with words. This isn't mine, it's hers. I found it scrawled on a piece of paper, tucked in between dishes I took from her:

On the back of my dishes
Which I took from my mother
Laying claim long ago
Lest they go to another
Like a sister or daughter
Or heaven forfend
The woman next door
Or the best childhood friend.

The dish on its front
Has a well painted flower
Unknown to my garden
Never seen in my bower
Also starlike shaped dots
Going round the wide brim
They're not to my taste,
They never have been.