His Hands

My father's hands were large and sure,
built for the work that work required,
the kind of hands that held a hammer
and then held me when the day retired.

The same hands that turned the wrench in cold
were the hands that smoothed my worried hair,
the dual nature of a working father—
hardness for the world, softness for his care.

I have tried to build a pair like his,
hands that know when to grip and when to let,
hands that work and hands that hold with equal skill—
I am not finished practicing yet.
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