I Have My Mother’s Hands

I have my mother’s hands.
I was never one who could lead a crowd,
So I sang with the people
And nearly drowned.
And I have my father’s hands, too.
Sometimes, the knuckles, they turn blue
With rage, not white.
But I’ve not once raised them in a fight.
My grandmother’s are there
In the nails kept bare
Because yarn causes cracks and flakes.
And polish chips don’t help when you bake.
I see generations in the span
In the space between fingers, in what I can
Or can’t do.
One day maybe I’ll see you
And your hand, so small, so pink.
Sometimes I want you so bad, and I think
Of the history passed beyond you and me,
A future maybe I’ll grow to see.
But for now I’m alone, walking the land
With the memories held
In the palm of a hand.

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