my first poem in like 30 years

I wrote this for SPARK; a really cool partnership between writing and visual arts.

Dad’s Hand

I sit beside his bed,
not looking at the tubes pumping artificial life into his body.
I reach out and hold his right hand
once full of strength, now still and soft.
I wrap my hands around it, and remember
this hand that has so shaped my life.

I was no more than a toddler, walking through a green park,
holding my arm straight up so my hand could reach his.
He lifted me to his shoulders, on top of the world.
The height scared me, but I knew I was safe,
his powerful hands wrapped around mine.

A few years later those rough, tanned hands taught me the manly acts
that he said I must learn.
Throwing and catching, sanding and hammering,
shooting and fishing and building a fire.

But as I grew older, those hands turned on me.
They pounded tables and threw things and backhanded me.
I began to fear the hands I once adored,
and soon I wanted nothing to do with them, or the man.

He pushed me away with his hands and his heart,
And those hands became a memory.

But as we both grew older, we learned to give and receive forgiveness,
and start again.
A letter here, a conversation there, an awkward visit at Christmas.
I no longer feared those hands, or the man.
And with a second chance, I learned to love him, and his hands, again.

He was not affectionate, but I hugged and kissed him anyway,
and in time he hugged me too, those strong hands around my back.

Those same hands held a Bible as he read about love in my wedding.
They played with my daughter as he learned to be a grandfather.
They unwrapped presents as we spent his last Christmas together.

And now I sit in this bright room, with that clean but unpleasant hospital odor.
I realize for the first time that our hands are the same size.
Now I’m the one holding his hand in mine,
hoping for movement, but there is none.

I talk about the memories—hunting, camping,
baseball games and beach vacations;
drinking Dr. Pepper from tall glass bottles.

“Don’t be afraid, Dad,” I tell him. “I’m here, and it’s OK.”
I kiss him and touch his face and squeeze his lifeless hand.
And then his hand moves in mine, his fingers reaching out.
It’s a tiny movement, his last, but it’s everything.