Hands of a Father

Remembering my dad on his birthday today. I wrote this over a decade ago as a gift for him.

Hands of a Father

The hands of a father,
forever extended, reaching.
Always ready to give comfort,
always loving, always teaching.

 Continuously outstretched,
for the child to take hold.
Ready to help her grow,
to help shape and mold.

Never ceasing to provide,
for the needs of the child’s heart.
For in each of laughter, love,
and understanding,
these hands play a part.

Always there to lift her up,
their caring touch will intervene,
in any situation that may arise,
their influence at times unseen.

For from times of gladness, joy, and pride,
to illness, pain, and doubt,
these hands are always helping,
forever reaching out.

Their touch so influential,
helping guide her way.
Hands so selfless in all they do,
show their love day by day.

The greatly needed hug,
the wiping away of tears,
the extra helping hand,
so much care over many years.

And so as the daughter looks back,
she sees again and again,
the loving hands of her father,
always reaching in.

Those hands, so strong, yet gentle, too,
with such a loving touch,
asking for nothing in return,
while always giving so much.

They remind her of The Father’s hands,
which reach from far above,
and her heart fills with gratitude and joy,
that she was given
two fathers,
both so full of love.

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