My Father's Hands

My father is the best and worst person I have ever met.

His hands are a simular contradiction.

 

They are 

Worn and rough,

Like 

Old leather.

 

They are

Big

With the 

Gentlest touch

From calacus built up of

Decades worth of 

Skillful hardwork.

 

They have

Lulled me to sleep

When I was a baby

And have

Left me

Sobbing in the 

Closet.

 

They have

Given me a 

Kitten 

When I was ten

and

Thrown my dog

Out into the

Snow

When I was tweleve.

 

My father's hands are a

Physical aparation of who

My father 

Has been my whole

Life,

Frome laughter

to 

Panic attacks.

 

As a child,

I felt

Abandon

And

Forgotten

By my father for many

Painful reasons.

 

In reality,

He was more 

Present

In my brother's and my life

Than in our sisters'.

 

That was due to the fact

That my parents' marriage

Went from a 

Campfire

To 

Hell's inferno,

In seconds.

 

I do not know

What drew my father

To my mother,

But whatever it was,

Equalivated to 

Thriteen years of marriage

And

Five children.

 

The day

My father

Moved out,

I was chasing 

My brother

Around and he

Slammed

My pinkie

In the door.

 

I was three,

And

Crying my eyes out.

 

He wouldn't 

Open the door

Because he

Feared

He would be in

Trouble.

 

He was only 

Six,

How could he 

Know?

 

I went to the

Hospital

And my mother asked my 

Father

To return for

Me.

 

He wouldn't,

He couldn't.

At least 

Not without

Staying.

 

The funny thing is,

He left my mother

For a 

Crazy woman,

Who acted like my

Surgate mother

Because of her

Bad relationship

With her own

Daughter.

 

Right after my parents

Divorce

I could only 

See my father on the

Weekends.

 

Because of this,

He seemed to become

More of what I call a

"Summer Parent",

One who went 

Camping,

Cooked

Breakfast,

Fell asleep at the

Lake,

And whose arms

Were wrapped around me

As I gripped the 

Face of a 

Jet Ski,

With a smile bigger than

Texas

And screaming,

"Faster!

Faster, Daddy!"

 

That is what 

I remember most,

His warm,

Comforting

Presence.

 

My father seems 

To be like a

Flame

In a lonely house,

Shadowed and

Chilly

From winter.

 

 

 

 

But where there is

Hearth ache,

There is 

Joy,

The pure delight

at almost anything

He's say,

How he could make 

Something 

Ordinary,

Magical

and

Real

In ways I couldn't 

Mange to, myself.

 

It is hard to

Believe

He is my

Father,

At times.

Poetry Slam: 

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