Mother’s Hands

My Mother's Hands are white

Mine are brown
But whenever she holds me
I feel the sound

Of the Portuguese island waves
Surf throughout my soul
But the movement of the wave
Never takes a toll

It guides my hands
Through a moment of hope
Where all mixed children
Find a space to cope

With the differences in the land
Of the ordinary
My Mother has a freedom hand
To connect all those different than she

A guide that is nestled in simplicity
Idea that human kind
Is the only ethnicity
My Mother's hands are the rule
My hands are the tool

--Jennifer J., Adult