Yes these are my father’s hands.
Big, capable, rough hands
scarred by the sun and by farm living.
These are the hands which do the work,
which build a farm, a fence, a yard
The hands which drive tractors, trucks, motorbikes
which guide cattle and work in the yards.
These are the hands that are rough
but are tender with a child.
These are the hands of a farmer, a man,
a father.
My father.
The man who can say few words, but always told us the three most important ones:
I love you.
And he did.
And I do.
I love you Daddy.
