First born by: Nancy Hines, Oil on Canvas – 2017
Her hands
big, soft, warm.
My hands
small, chubby, cold.
Grasped mine as we
walked dirty sidewalks
midday or late night,
crossed rain, sleet or
snow covered roads,
ventured into parts of the city
we did not know.
She reached for my hand
when she
needed me close,
wanted me safe,
protected me.
For eighteen years,
hands that were
once inseparable
now no longer touch.
Not since
I pulled away.
Then
age five,
with her hand wrapped
around her Mother’s
she walked dark dirt roads
for a better life.
Let the sun
burn and darken her skin
for the American Dream.
Traversed what seemed
to be endless miles
because a sign read
Freedom This Way.
Crossing the border because
Freedom is Here.
Now
The “right government”
wants to take her
away from me
Old “right men” say she’s
stealing their jobs
The “right people” say
she doesn’t belong here
“Right women”
tell me she’s a criminal
All she has been is
my Mother.
My hands
big, balled, strong.
Her hands
small, scared, fragile.
My hands that
pulled away
now long
for the tight hold
Mother had.
I need to
keep her close,
keep her safe.
I need to
protect her.
I’m sorry for pulling away,
I thought I was grown.
Copyright@2020
The Barker’s Voice: A Journal of Arts and Letters
9191 Barker Cypress, CASA 325K, Cypress, Tx. 77433
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