I look at your hands and see my own
reflecting what they’ve done and how they’ve grown
Within your grip; a paternal bond
with those knuckles wide and fingers long
Your baby mitts, gentle to touch
My trained palms callused, knuckles rough
Your hands to me – my hand’s reflection
My hands to you – your heart’s protection
As true as that grip, be it known
I look at your hands and see my own
(23 years old, for my son)
