my hands brown like the earth.

cracked ‘n dry like the month of august.

my hands small but efficient.

they been poked ‘n pricked pickn’ cotton.

my hands set ta work from dawn ta dusk.

they tire by noon, longn’ ta let ease they soreness.

my hands never rest though.

never do they splash cool water from the barrel.

my hands break the way papa breaks ground.

cracked n’ calloused, blister n’ bruised.

my hands persist.

papa tell me never ta slow my hands.

my hands work hard.

even after dark, they work hard.

my hands learn new skills ‘n secret.

they pick up sticks n’ trace letters ‘n the dirt.

my hands practice.

so one day, they can write they way to freedom.

my hands will leave this plantation one day.

one day, My Hands will be Free.