I watch you Mother, lay my first grandchild upon your lap
Not caressed or clasped to your breast
But distant, removed, unable to soil your clothes
And this - your first great grandchild.

You have no idea how much you declare
When you tell us how your friends have pushed you
To see this miracle of life
And now you can tell them your duty is done.

A short ten minutes and you hand her back
I wonder, "Is this how you were with me?"

I feel again the newborn abandonment
And remember your stories of not holding your firstborn, me
Afraid to see or touch. Afraid to love
And forced to take me home to tend, against your will.

Caught, trapped with an infant daughter
That you can only see as a ball and chain
That imprisons you in a marriage
That never should have been.

Why is it that I have no pictures of you holding my children?
Or yours?

I remember how later you fed your babies
A blanket roll or pillow used to prop a bottle
As you leave to care for other things.
"Did you ever hold us?" I can't recall.

And now I see how you cannot hold this child.
Three generations of children. Two daughters and three sons,
Three grand-daughters and a grand-son,
And now a great granddaughter.

Does anyone get touched by you?
Ever?