The Pact He Made

November 8, 2007
I’m pretending
Not really sleeping.
He comes in,
My father.
I’m peeking a little
As he strokes my hair.
His mighty hands
Mean no harm to me.
They’re frightening,
They’re sun-kissed in color,
They’re long and strong,
They’re proper with clean nails,
They’re nimble and sure,
They’re worn with his hardships.
On his right hand
There’s a scar
But that’s nothing,
That scar.
I have one
A small one.
We held hands
Swearing our bond

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