My Fathers Hands

I wrote this in 1994 when my father passed.

 

 

 

My Fathers Hands

 

Misunderstood, like the man who wore them

Everything taken out of context

Pushes and shoves that matched

The kicks under the table

All taken out of context.

In his world discipline was love

He never watched a talk show.

 

He learned what he had lived

And lived as he had learned

We all grew up with a fathers anger

Sometimes it kept us from seeing

A fathers love

Some of us regret the years

That we took them out of context.

 

Misunderstood, but then...

We never looked at both sides of them

We only saw what we felt

Not wanting to understand, for fear

It might make him more human

Our pain, less real

So we left them out of context.

 

Carried me when I was small and tired

Hugged me when I was older and scared

Fixed my skates, my car, my daughters toys

Lit cigarettes, lit fireworks, lit furnaces

Lifted beer cans and grandchildren

Built a plane, an engine, a family

All in proper context.

 

Dark with grease and sun

Pale, dry and cracked in the cold

Now folded across a silent heart

He depended on them, as did we

They never let us down

Even though many times

We took them out of context.

 

My fathers hands.