My Grandma Has No Thimble

In the Sugar Cookie Sewing kit I find spools of thread
needles with too-small eyes
tiny dull bronze-colored scissors
but no thimble

My index finger draws blood
my finger to my mouth
childhood memories of iron-flavored zippers
a tiny bead of red
I have half a mind to look for the Novodisk Bag my grandma keeps in the living room
to take out the glucose monitor and offer it my blood as she does

When I finish the Hello Kitty patch
my finger is speckled like the eggs she used to take from the coop
I fumble around a final knot
minutes for me
seconds for her

The next morning my finger spells something in Braille
t-h-i-m-b-l-e-l-e-s-s raised red freckles
my grandma ladles still-steaming congee into a bowl

as her unflinching hands meet mine–
red-hot pink-hot white-hot
I wonder how many stir-frys it takes for skin to forget it can burn

She ladles another bowl for my mother
motions for me to carry it up the stairs
and though I try to escape

like son like mother
like mother like son
her hands are the same unfired clay

that point to the maggot-infested trash
to oily dishes that need washing
to coarse weeds that require pulling
to shower drains that need unclogging

soft fingers that find fault
while mine grow thick with resentment

My grandmother needs no thimble
and I half-hope t-h-i-m-b-l-e-l-e-s-s just skipped a generation
the way recessive genes sometimes do

So I tell my hands to thicken too
red-hot pink-hot white-hot quenched tsssssss
until my hands learn her steel