my father’s hands

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.