You are the perennially left out,
the ignored, the tromped on,

some of the hardest working
among us. And it’s the us

I want to embrace today of all days,
the us of the we, the people,

whose feet and hands and backs
ache from the work you do for us,

to feed your families. Yesterday
one of you labored over my

pampered, old white lady feet,
delivering a calf massage

that left me boneless. Mine
were only one of how many

pairs of feet you hunched over
and cleaned and painted

with the precision of a surgeon
in just one day? And though

my tips always raise your
eyebrows in surprise, I leave

knowing that it is not enough.
It cannot make up for what

is being yanked out of your
aching hands. We do not pay you

or thank you or care for you,
the tired, the working poor,

nearly enough. And now
the unkindest among us

are making it harder for you
to make it. My “I’m sorry”s

do nothing. But I am,
especially on a holiday

that purports to celebrate
liberty and justice for all,

so, so sorry. You, who are
never them, who are us,

who are we, the people,
deserve so much better.