We have hereditary green thumbs on my father’s side of the family.
My grandmother bloomed roses straight from her finger tips.
My father nurtured his vegetables with gloved hands and a wooden stool.
Even my mother’s side of the family knew something of agriculture.
Aunt Terri was the color of leather from her days in the sun.
My grandfather’s onions sprung up every year, even after he was gone.
My horticulturist brothers have seemed to carry on the tradition.
Succulents, Tomatoes, Apple Trees, and Herbs.
But not my mother.
No, my mother has a black thumb and a forgetful mind.
She was much better at growing children.
And as I try to grow these greens as well,
I feel like I’m trying to prove that I belong in this family.
My hands covered in dirt from the Earth where I buried another failure.
It’s as if I don’t deserve even hose water to wash clean.
So I keep my hands dirty to disguise these black thumbs of mine.
And I think,
Maybe I would be better off growing children.