Poetry: Father Taught (JLSC 7)

1
He had brought bed-time kisses
to an end three years ago.
I was back home
from the week-long workshop
for high school editors that
I had paid for, by myself.
To say hello, I’m back,
I took his hand in mine
weakly, so wrongly.
“Is that how
you shake a man’s hand,
Billy—Beaver—boy?”
Disappointed, but no quitter,
he said, “This is how
you do it, man.
Sean, you look here:
V to v,
but cup your hand
so the other man
can’t grab and squeeze
your fingertips. See?”
We shook until I properly shook
a man’s hand.

2
Such little hands.
Unanticipated tiny fingers
requiring patience
that I do not have.
I want to teach
my father’s lessons
but it’s too soon
for shaking hands.
Undiscouraged, yet confused,
I slipped her hand into mine.
Her taut skin, light-colored
like the unpainted wood
of her Ikea crib
that I assembled
proudly and right
I stroke with my thumb
like a breeze off the James
the side that she’ll learn
is the black-hand side
someday. Not today.
When my daughter was three
I called to tell my father
“Crossing at Park Place
and Vanderbilt,
big V to little v,
I could swear
she stroked my hand.”
-By Sean Chambers