This poem is presented in partnership with Southern Foodways Alliance, first published in the “Gravy for Breakfast” e-newsletter
There are the nieces and cousins happy
to be included in the circle to show they can
hold hands and hold their eyes shut during the prayer
like the big kids they’re watching from the corner
of their squinted eyes.
There are the teenage boys who never know how
to hold a hand without squeezing or pulling
away at the first syllable of “amen.”
There are the grandparents and aunts and uncles whose
hands carry my family history of failures and
factories and fieldwork and footholds all cashed
in to buy us a seat at the table, to buy the table, to buy
the food on the table, to buy the gas and tickets and hotels
it took to make sure we were all at the table.
There are hands that you’ll swear
are bigger every year. Hands you’ll swear aren’t
getting smaller every year.
Hands that talk
and tell you “I love you,” “I missed you,” “I know
you didn’t mean it,” “I know you meant it, but
you can’t stop me from loving you” just
by the way they tap the back of your hand before
locking your fingers in place.
Hands that feel like a door
closing and leaving the weight of a wet winter in the yard.
Hands that feel like a door
opening and setting you free into the first bite of spring.
Jason McCall is the author of one essay collection and half a dozen collections of poetry. An Alabama native with an MFA from the University of Miami, he spends his days teaching at the University of North Alabama and his nights praying for the day that Florence (AL) gives him a restaurant that serves gyros and fries.