Dry, cracked, hard. 
These hands, once soft, 
Now long for attention. 

Years ago they changed my diapers, 
Soft and moisturized, they greeted me in the mornings 
And tucked me in at night. 

My mom’s hands prepared hot coffees for years at our family’s bakery.
They packed orders and stocked fridges, 
Her bare fingertips flipped tortillas over the scorching stovetop, 
and our tiny kitchen filled with that smokey aroma I grew up with. 
Her hands heated up my own little hands on cold New York City winter days, 
Squeezing them to remind me that I was safe. 

But now her hands no longer function like they used to. 
These hands, once filled with life, are drying up. 
Now, these hands change my little sister’s diapers. 
And now I am the one who warms her dry, cracked hands in mine. 

Performance

Process

This is the first poem I ever wrote. I used to dislike poetry because It made me feel vulnerable. When thinking about my mom’s hands, I started to feel comfortable writing poetry. I started writing the poem in my journal before transcribing and editing it in a Google document. I also translated the poem into Spanish.