You hold their tiny hands
When a child is born there is so much love.
"It's a boy." Cool. I love men.
Got me thinking about the cycle they talk about in The Lion King,
How something dies and becomes grass, and you can't outrun the past
Everything becomes nothing and yet stays something
But I saw his little hands were opening and closing.
Yours were cold and rigid, blue, and not moving

There was life and death and life again
There were those football games you screamed at in vain
Your hands hit hard
They were huge, coarse, and calloused
From working at the mill
Words said out of malice
Packing your bags and unpacking your guilt
on our mothers

I hope his hands stay gentle
I hope he regrets every mean thing
I hope he's accountable
Hope he doesn't sing, "I can't wait to be king."
I hope he turns strength inside
I hope he loves and lives sincerely
I hope he leaves this world knowing he lived and not just survived

I hope his touch is just tickles and little trinkets of affection
Hope he doesn't turn a blind eye
To those jokes about the girls in the group chat
and  isn't afraid to call out lies.
I hope his heart is bigger than his will to provide.
I really hope he does better than the men in our lives.

I hope he doesn't run away
from the hard things and the hard feelings.
I hope his fists unclench and he stays.
I hope he only fights his own shadows and hands are just healing.
I hope his fists are never bruised
in a room
that smells like his shame.

Because your daughters have paid in blood
for the sins of their father and his father
They paid everytime they took a lover
For 100's of years 
They paid with their bones and swallowed tears 
Their bodies are broken bruised and blue
They paid off your debt
So his daughters don't have to.