My Father's Hands

My father’s hands,

rough like the crumpled up paper

on which I wrote down every word

and every syllable, trying to tell him how I felt.

My father’s hands- they were so strong.

They helped me up

and they held me tight

with every step that I took.

My father’s hands

were always so warm.

They shielded me from the cold of the world.

They protected me from harm.

My father’s hands,

don’t hold me tight anymore,

they don’t guide me, protect me,

or make me feel safe like they once did.

My father’s hands,

are the only good thing

I can remember from my childhood days.

My father’s hands

are not the same anymore.