Always visible,
the veins of my father's arms
just beneath his olive skin
when he grasps tightly the wheel of his truck.
A habit?
Who's to know if he loosens his grip
when the passenger seat is empty?
Visible as he pounds on his keyboard,
somehow composing emails with all the right answers
from the jumbled mess of his fingers
and tension in his limbs.
Even visible when my brother announces
“It's fightin' time, Daddy,”
and flies towards him
with tiny fists outstretched.
Even with flexed arms
and every vein out to play too,
my father's punches are feather-light
and he throws my brother onto the floor
in slow, slow motion.