Grandma’s Hands

Grandma's hands

Clapped in church on Sunday morning

Grandma's hands

Played a tambourine so well

Grandma's hands

Used to issue out a warning

She'd say, "Baby don't you run so fast

Might fall on a piece of glass

"Might be snakes there in that grass"

Grandma's hands


      My the first superhero Ive ever known.  she is both saint and sinner and ain’t scared to speak on either time.

she is angel on a broken wing broken in the lesser sense, there aint a fall she never got up from...a hurt she ever revealed to the eyes she gleamed in. 


  Grandmas hands built lives 

even when they ached. 

Even when grandpas hands didnt smell so much like her no more ,like loving her became a task he was no longer up for ,yet Grandma’s hands still fed all his children and their children and their children.


  Grandmas hands hold knowledge,

 like the feeling of pain after your lover betrays everything right in you. 

Them hands know healing, them hands done healed, them hands know watching.

  Like watching her own son invest into a life of bottles a trait grandpa would uncaringly pass from his hands. 


Them hands know forgiveness they know for the sake of this family 

She stroked the corse stubble of grandpa’s cheek even when she saw another woman in his eyes 

them hands know strength strong enough to wield daggers that would meet grandpa’s back in his sleep them hands aint nothing to play with 


Them hands know prayer 

 She prayed for me like 

Knees bent and pressed 

She looked for healing that seemed like fantasies 

spoke in tongues 

Language native to her mouth 

It reached higher than my english ever could 


 Them hands know understanding. 

Like when my 18 year old body became home for everybody but my own and she still called it beautiful. 

Them hands move mountains

Part seas and feed multitudes 


Grandma hands been black girl magic before black girl magic was a thing 

And Grandma ain’t afraid to tell you 


Them hands heed warnings 

“Baby don't you run so fast

Might fall on a piece of glass

Might be snakes there in that grass"

Grandma's hands

 grandmas touch 

Grandmas fingers 



Made home between rock and hard place 

Made love from a heavy bed of regret 

Made peace amid her war 


Them hands been broken 

Beaten and unappreciated 

But them hands made way out of no way 

And for that Them hands are miracles

This poem is about: 
My family


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741