My Name is Ida

My name is Ida.
I am a slave.

I iron and mend the white girls’ dresses.
My rough hands,
Scarred form iron burns,
Smooth satin skirts and lacy silks.
My callused fingers mend tears and cover stains.
The needle pricks my fingertip,
Blood wells up –
The same color blood as theirs.

At night, I fasten tiny pearl buttons
Covering up slender pale shoulders
That feel the same as mine.

I sit alone at the window,
Watching my master’s daughters primly ascend the carriage steps,
Carelessly wrinkling the dresses I labored over.

Sometimes
I close my eyes and dream
About what it would be like
To feel that soft silk against my shoulders,
And have shiny ringlets
Instead of a plain brown braid,
About what it would be like
To gaily head off to a fancy ball
Instead of a cold straw pallet.

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