My Hands

My Hands

They are small,
these hands of mine.
They are man hands
(though they don’t often look the part).
Smooth, soft,
the nails are clean.
They look frail as I
examine wrinkled skin.

They are not my
Dad’s hands,
strong, rough,
grip of steel.
I felt safe in those hands,
scared of those hands.
I rarely saw those hands.

– I envy those hands –

No one fears my hands,
small, frail,
unnoticed,
un-held,
unloved.

I wrote this one quite some time ago. See the next post for the follow up to My Hands.

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