Potatoes

My grandfathers’ father
was given the land.
the soil deep
with “virgin dirt”.

Potatoes would wiggle to the surface at harvest.
We couldn’t steal, what wasn’t yours,
the earth beneath your feet wasn’t enough.
Your father’s face,
your baby
adorned the potato sacks
that lined my fathers’ pockets,
100 years later.

I inherited a hat that was made from the feathers of your grandfathers’ headdress. Family heirlooms assembled from your flesh.
How do I hold these against the wind?