My uncle is left-handed like me,
at least before I was in third grade.
Not that I was treated as devil-touched.
Just no one knew how to help a left hand
hold right-handed scissors or share
right-handed space or teach a left hand
to make oblong slants to prepare stand-alone
letters to become cursive-connected.
All this warned that my left hand was a mistake.
But Mammaw believed a body had a right to be
what a body needed to be and didn’t change my fork
from left to right. And she knew my left-handed mother
ghosted my fingers.
At big family dinners, I sat next to my left-handed uncle.
His hand, elbow, and arm held a non-competing
clause with mine. I still eat with my left hand and bat
a left-handed drive. I drift left when I walk and birthed
a left-handed daughter who had left-handed scissors,
who curled her letters in a left-right, right-left, upside-down
way, who answered my right elbow? with a chuckling left knee.