When I die,
Look at my hands.
They will tell my story.
Are they old and warn
Or
Are they young and new?

My hands should be used,
Swollen,
Cracked,
Scarred.
They deserve a medal of honor.
My family depended on them.
My wife found comfort in them.
My children discovered protection under them.

Focus on the fingers
They are swollen, ready to cook sausages    
Focus on the fingernails
They are cracked, a microscopic grand canyon.
Focus on the palm
They are scarred, a farmers plot of scarred earth  
Focus on the back
They are black, too many years in the sun

For I used my hands.
They rocked my children to slumber.
They caress my wives face with love.
They fired shots when we needed protection.

Focus on my hands when I die.
They tell my story.