My fathers hands

I watched those hands since I was born.

My father’s hands now weak and worn.

They held me up through all the years

They spanked my butt, they wiped my tears

 

His hands were dirty, his hands would bleed

But with those hands we’d never need

I saw the callous, I saw the grime

They never stopped in all that time

 

They opened jars, hit nails, turned screws

Sometimes he missed and earned a bruise

Those hands taught me to throw a ball

To cut a lawn, to paint a wall

 

That sometimes you need a gentle touch

But a firm handshake, meant so much

I noticed changes appear in his skin

Age spots showed up, his hands grew thin

 

When he asked for help, I started to see

He actually needed some help from me

The hands I remembered so strong and bold

Now depended on mine as his grew old

 

It makes me think of my own kids

And of all the years and things we did

Do they see my hands as I saw dad’s?

Will they remember the times that we had?

 

As I hold their kids I begin to see

The toll the years have taken on me

I see my hands, the scars I’ve earned

They’ve cut and bled, smashed and burned

 

I watched those hands since I was born.

My father’s hands now weak and worn.

But it’s not my father’s hands I see

The hands I see belong to me