Poem by Laura McGinnis

Thanksgiving Gratitude

Before we ate, we went around the table:
"What are you thankful for?"
The usual: health, family, home.
Then the formal prayer, grace before we filled our faces:
"Bless this meal and the hands that produced it. Amen."

The hands are more than those who came from the kitchen.
The hands come from farms
where turkeys are bred, grown, fed day after day
until they are ready to grace someone's holiday table.

They come from acres that are prayed over
for just the right balance of sun and rain
to produce the yams, beans, potatoes, and pumpkins --
the feast they cannot afford for themselves.

They come from fields, from stooped-over pickers
paid pennies to gather in the harvest,
moving from field to field, farm to farm until the season ends
and they must subsist until it's time to do it all again.

They come from the bowels of the waterworks,
giving 24/7 attention to the knobs and dials
to keep the water flowing and potable,
who give up their holidays to make sure everyone else has theirs.

​How can I, with my head bowed,
bear the weight of all the hands
who prepared this feast?

Laura McGinnis is a retired project manager. She studies with the University of Pittsburgh's Osher Lifelong Learning Institute and Carlow University's Madwomen in the Attic. She has been published by Clarendon House, Poetry Quarterly, Sweetiecat Press, and Indie Blu(e).

---