When I look at my hands I think of my father,
and feel his pain through my fingers.
Rubbing the tips for the memory
of a working-class legend and his stories,
and I thank everything that can be thanked
for not being born into privileged rank,
(for an honest life cannot be bought
but must be learned the hard way).
I was born to a man who worked his soul,
twelve-hour days delivering coal,
ten ton he packed into hundredweight sacks,
while the English winter stabbed at his back.
I look at my hands & the mem’ries are ingrained,
and as I watch my hand drag a pen across this page,
I remember his hard work and sacrifice,
and thank him for being born into such a rich life.
