Our father’s hands are like a
Baseball Glove;
Worn and warm
And full of endless summers.
The scent of
Sunflower seeds
And freshly mowed lawns.

They work steadily and with patience, like
You hope yours will someday. And
Maybe you might try to mimic them when
You hear them tap a beat. You find, however
More in the way than you hope: a
Tool belt twice your size; a hammer
Too heavy to lift. So you swing and miss and
He’ll say Let the tool do the work; your
First physics lesson: Strike One.

Fast forward ten years: palms sweaty, fingers
Trembling, frustration pulsing through your
Veins, licking your muscles with irritation and
You almost feel like giving up but
He pushes you once more: again.
A deep breath.
Clutch in. Tap the gas. Steady Break.
Feel it Grab?
Engine whines, give it more.
There.
That’s it. You’re getting better. A smile unfurls.
Your first hit; you’re on base.

You, come some three years later, will miss
Those talks—you call them lectures now— You
Will regret all the drives to school spent snoozing; daydreaming
About something you had right next to you
All along. Lookie there—a double and you’re on third.

Someone will see you one day and say
You have lovely hands or maybe
Your hardworking nature fits you nicely
And you’ll just smile and say “Thank You,
I get them from my Dad, Mister
Grand Slam Magic Man.

You’re too small to know this now—your
Hand barely wraps around his index finger—but
Let me tell you: we’re the lucky ones and you’ll wish this time
Would linger. If only for one more
Inning.