A dear friend of mine said once, “You’ve got a man’s hand” At first I took offence, but then there was some truth in what he said. Here’s my thought out response to him.
Even as a child, when others played with dolls, she let her palms run through the mud.
When she grew a little older, she had the confectioner’s hands. The bakers palm, all sweaty, black, full of dirt.
They were the same hands that picked bags, Bags twice the weight of herself. She had a boy’s hand, all rough.
But these aren’t really the reason behind her coarse palms.
These are insignificant. Negligible moments told.
She had a man’s hand, because too fast she had to grow.
Because only a man’s hand, could stop the blow.