My grandmother’s hands
cut the biscuit dough
fold the socks smaller than fingers
wrap around the mug.
I see my mother’s hands
becoming hers, and mine,
growing into each other.
My grandmother wraps her hand around
my son’s and I can feel
my own palm pressed against hers.
My daughter’s fingers are perfect, smooth
from my womb, ready to grow into the knobs
and scales of women, mothers
who share the same hands,
the same love