My father’s hands, so rough and worn,
How gentle they’ve become.
They sooth the wailing grandchild
Whose peace has come undone.
Those same hands have helped to guide me
And taught me many things.
Like how to take pride in what I do;
The reward that hard work brings.
I didn’t always understand
What lay beneath the skin,
Misunderstood so many things
When I was just a kid.
In the constant struggle to provide,
Some words were left unsaid,
But always were they written there
In the lines upon his hands.
Years passed before I learned to read
All that they had to say
About the love they always held
Despite mistakes along the way.
Sometimes love is shown more by
What is done, and why, and how.
Truth is seldom found in words alone.
I understand that now.
In my father’s hands is love,
And in his face is pride
for who I am and who I’ll be
with my family at my side.
Written by request for Father's Day 2010
