Hands caked with beige clay,

I work with slight dismay,

A present just for you,

Sculpted while I feel blue.

My clay is my canvas,

Coloring the blankness,

With the love you’ll soon see,

The care that will soon bleed.

Sweat douses my forehead,

My patience about dead,

I make your present great-

Or…_try_ to make it great…

Intention baked inside,

In the paintbrush that glides,

With hope, affection, wish,

The most I could ever dish.

Wrapped in colored paper,

A now makes it better,

My clay art hidden in,

For you to love within.

It’s quite the tiny kind,

But I hope you don’t mind,

Handheld- I hope it’ll be,

A dear reminder of me.

(Ik some of these lines might not be rhythmic, but oh well lol)