My hands have lines on the palms and five fingers.
It isn’t the smallest, but not the largest either.
It is imperfect in every was possible,
But, no matter what, it works for me just fine.
My hand writes for me whether it’s homework, stories, or poems,
It turns the pages of an exciting book I’m anxious to read,
It helps me drive carefully through the multiple street after street after street of Grand Rapids.
My hand holds me up as I do cartwheels around the soft, green, grassy field,
It holds another imperfect hand for comfort,
For help,
For guidance.
My hand pats someone’s back to congratulate their success,
And it also wipes off a tear of someone hurt,
Sad,
Lost,
But, sometimes, it does things I don’t want it to do at all
Like reaching for an unreal dream that’s

too

far






away
Digging nails to make crescents on my palms
One of the palms is peeling because they’re so dry
It tries to do something I’ve stopped doing so long ago
My hand is not perfect, not in any way, shape, or form
But I know I can somehow control it
No matter what (or how long) it takes.