These arms hold,
extensions of my heart and soul
connected to my hands, fingers
which speak a language untold.

These arms are bold
under hot sun
in everlasting cotton fields
these arms have been sold.
And these hands,
paving ways for railroads,
passageways,
these fingers are cold.

These arms are strong,
holding veins that are grasping
our African roots
Yet these hands,
know how easy flesh
can bruise,
these hands know how to
pull triggers
that can stain even black skin
these fingers,
know what a cold body feels like
these fingers,
know the most bitter nights.

And yet,
these arms helped carry
expectations on weary backs,
these arms held children
who didn’t know the difference
between white and black
these hands have fought for
freedom, respect
these hands have typed dreams
into history facts
these fingers held hands
to other hands
and their hands intertwined with fingers,
which squeezed right back.

these Arms,
these Hands,
imprinted their souls
into dreams
still yet to be told.