Plantation #21 Poem by Bryan Corbett

my father before me
and his father before him
and his father before him
all lived and worked on
plantation #21
picking potatoes
from sun up
to sun down
for pennies
on the pound
right up until
19 and 68

the scars
on my old man's fingers
are deep, and dirty
and he is
proud of those scars
proud of that depth
proud of that dirt
proud in the knowing
that his back-breaking labor
saved my fingers from
similar deep and dirty
scars