He held my palms and told me I didn’t have “working hands.” And I smiled at him, With my soft eyes, And an equally gentle smile. Taking my hands back, I stared at them. Eyebrows furrowed, Slender fingers curling into fists. Nails digging into my palms, Straight into my working hands. Because of the lack of calluses, Because of the lotioned skin, I will always be told the same thing. “You don’t have ‘working hands.’” Because calluses are not formed by tears, By sleepless nights of studying, By working overtime whilst being underpaid. Calluses are not formed by breastfeeding, Nor teaching our children how to be well-behaved. Calluses are not formed by enduring years of being treated as lesser-- By gritting teeth while being objectified By clenching your car keys between your knuckles On your way home from work. Calluses are not formed by The amount of love I’ve given In order to raise this generation properly, By cooking warm meals By doing the laundry And by furthering my education. So I raise my chin, I unclench my fists And take his calloused hands in mine. I run my limber fingers over his, His calloused hands, And smile. “My working hands are different, As I have learned to care for others Just as much as myself. And perhaps There’s a lotion I could lend to you.”