I hate my fathers hands.

I hate how delicate and fragile they are

yet my life goals live through each bruise and scar engraved on them

that have kept a roof over my head and food on the table.

My dreams and hopes live through his hands that I hope one day will never have to work again

because no matter how delicate his hands are, those are the same hands that held my hand as I

took my first steps.

Those same hands were the ones that taught me how to ride a bike and never failed to pick me off

the ground when I needed them most.

Those same hands were the ones that craddled me to sleep on nights when my mother's hands

weren't warm enough.

You see my dreams are shaped around my father's hands but I hate how fragile they are.

I want to make them strong again, just like they once were.