My Father’s Hands

2013-04-21 15.54.59











I slip my small girl-hand
into my father’s thick, meaty grip,
firm and strong, yet pliable and familiar,
like a well-used baseball mitt,
big enough, he says,
to hide the bacon drippings
that doubled for peanut butter
in his school lunch sandwiches.

On Saturday mornings,
he grasps the frying pan handle
and jauntily flips the hotcakes—
one, two, three revolutions,
a morning show for his baby girl.

When I am sick, lovingly
he lays his hands on my head,
the gentle, trembling pressure
comforting and calm
as he calls upon God,
his hands a conduit of
blessings from heaven.


About Judy Grigg Hansen
I write poetry and nonfiction, and I am passionate about the people, places, and wildflowers of Idaho and the Northwest.

One Response to My Father’s Hands

  1. Dick says:

    So beautiful, Daddy

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