Poetry by Courtney J. Campbell
My Dad's Hands
I remember how she looked at my dad's gray hands,
permanently stained with engine oil, shop dirt,
factory silt and hard work,
a crooked index finger pointing out
determination and blue collar character.
My dad's hands are made of clay.
They come from the salt of the earth,
from the world's very first day
to support a house, held up -- rebuilt
from fire, just another day's work
for those hands of hire.
My dad's hands are made of history.
She grimaced, seeing prose but no poetry:
"You think you're gonna touch me with those? We'll see.."
and out came the files, the clippers, the scissors
as she tried to erase what had brought history hither
from the Church to the Court to Marx to Lenin
to Detroit, to Pontiac, to Flint -- to Michigan.
But my dad's hands are made of steel --
the very metal that fed us our meals
through his soft touches of labor!
My dad's hands have been on strike,
have been laid off, and stood in lines,
holding my tiny fingers as we waited!
My dad's hands crafted wooden guitars
and years later held them up and showed ours
where to press, when his fingers no longer held finesse.
My dad's hands have held books of history
sliding over and filling their pages!
Yes! My dad's hands are made of flesh!
As such they bleed
from slipped wrenches and hammer blows
from layoffs, unions, and threats to foreclose.
They bleed from strength, they bleed for us,
They bleed at length, they bleed from injustice!
And you who have known none of these
Now make them bleed of vanity!
--
Courtney J. Campbell
Copyright © 2006 by Courtney J. Campbell
Courtney's page at MySpace