Midnight poetry because I'm a sad bitch

A tribute to my right hand

A tribute to my right hand
See now if I was a boy, what I'm about say could be explicit
But in reality it's all just boring and simplicit
I have my left hand and she's great and all
I appreciate her I really do.
I used to suck my thumb and I'll admit it's kind of gross
So leftie comforted me from the ages of one - thirteen
Ok that's a lie, it was fifteen
She's the one that writes and holds my knife
But what can I say, she was perfect
Her every movement engrained into my mind.
But my right hand. I really respect her efforts.
I respect her trying to learn how to write
Not once but twice.
First time the teachers tried to make me
Second someone said I wrote funny and I needed to not be left out.
My attempts were rude
Despite holding my fork she still helped me to my food
My right was awkward and her movements illogical
She couldn't hold a pencil correctly
Or a tennis racket, or well, anything
But she adjusted because she had to
She was struggling to keep up with the others who were most capable than her.
She learnt high fives and hand shakes
And rock, paper, scissors
I was uncontrollably jealous of my brother and sisters
Born right handed? What a privilege
You don't smudge your work
Or struggle to throw a ball
And you don't eat 'wrong'
It took me forever to see her benefits over the negative
I began to feel like an executive
People began to grow jealous of me
Of my funny writing style and the fact I was different
I learnt to embrace it
I embraced that my father had passed it down to me
My first family heirloom
Now I was cool because I wasn't like the others
Perhaps I still hold a tiny ounce of resentment
Honestly all I feel I contentment
Is this my first victory due to my first family heirloom
I think so