My Mother's Hands are white
Mine are brownBut 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