working hands.

I once admired

your working hands.

Hands rough and strong,

so streaked with dirt.

Hands that feed, that

fight, that teach.

Hands that prayed,

and they pray still.

Hands that

risk their life to

abandon a homeland,

to cross a border,

hands that left your

home a world away

to make this strange land

mine

Aching hands that,

of sun and sweat, and

prayers and dirt,

built my life

on American soil

Loud hands at work,

at family reunions, church,

at quinceañeras, barbecues.

Loud hands outside,

Silent at home.

Sunburnt

hands that rip

The bitter taste of

fatherhood from your

unwilling tongue.

I've always watched your

Working hands come

home to rest,

No strength for love,

no time for me,

only to eat,

and work,

and sleep.

I pray my soft

delicate hands

Be as strong and tough

as you,

My gentle American hands,

such tender hands, so

unlike yours.

My privileged hands,

they want for nothing.

Such sheltered hands

Uncalloused, young,

untraveled.

I pray that

my American hands

have room to hold

the love you never did,

Love meant for me, my

brother, sister, mother,

or kids.

My hands provide

for not a child unseen.

They work to care, to

mend their hearts,

To wipe the sweat upon

my brow only after I dry

their tears.

My hands

won't work to kiss the

sun, my hands will work

to make a home.

My working hands

will work

To love.