My Father’s Hands

**Trigger Warning: Self Harm**

My Father’s Hands

Sometimes I look at my hands,

and they remind me of my father’s.

The adult in me is fully aware

the two are not the same.

They are but a genetic anomaly,

not a life sentence.

She assures me I am not capable

of using my hands in the same

manner he chose.

I do not know if I truly believe her

because, in some ways, I have.

My child, she sees only the similarities,

and she cannot refrain from reacting with fear.

She cannot separate the hands from

her memories, from her pain,

although decades have passed,

and soil separates them.

He is gone.  He is dead.

He lives only in her mind.

Sometimes when I look at my hands

they remind me of my father’s,

and I feel compelled to

amputate them at the wrists.

By A.C. Fernandez, Contributor

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