My Father’s Hands

my father’s hands caught me

as I was brought into this world

my father’s hands kept me closer

on a balcony at the mountain house

my father’s hands were nowhere in sight

when I was learning how to ride a bike

but they followed my fingers

as he taught me how to read

my father’s hands are big and hairy

compared to my mother’s

and they left us for a while

they were there but they felt distant

my father’s hands were strong

as they loudly hit the table

and then they were invisible

my father’s hands never held a doll

my father’s hands held a passport because

my father’s hands were building a future

constructing pianist-like long fingers dealing with a job

those hands loved to manage

but my father’s hands reappeared one day

holding a cigarette waiting for me outside the club

always making sure I was alright

sheltering me and all my friends

my father’s hands supported me

when I told him who I am

a truth he always knew

but never heard

and my father’s hands, baby,

they accepted you too

when he walks me down the aisle you’ll know

the power of love they hold.

(my father’s hands)

About the author:

I am a lesbian intersectional feminist who loves to read books and write thoughts down;

I mostly travel around in search of new adventures and cultures to learn from!


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