My Father's Hands

My father’s hands were large,
with wide palms and long fingers.
Strong and calloused from years of hard
work building homes, walkways, and walls .

The delicate tasks he left for more dainty hands
His were too big to thread a needle
but he did brush his daughter’s hair
he started at the bottom and worked
toward the top to smooth out all the tangles.

He shuffled the cards and dealt a hand
to anyone who sat at his table.
He encouraged talk about everything.

When the game was over he closed his eyes
inhaled the smoke from his unfiltered cigarette
using his fingers he removed stray bits
of tobacco from his tongue then exhaled.

I remember his hands folded in prayer,
illuminated by candlelight
and how he wiped his cheeks
when my mother died,

his hands didn’t seem large enough
to hold all his tears.