My Father’s Hands by Chestlyn Draghoender

I wasn’t raised by my father’s hands.
Those tiny hands couldn’t raise a monkey
even if they wanted to.
When he visited I kept my fingers crossed,
In the hope that my mother wouldn’t see him
and lose her temper.

I wasn’t raised by my father’s hands.
Yet they were always full
of whiskey bottles and empty promises.
Not sure if they learned how to build
or lay a foundation.
‘Cause heaven knows I needed one.

Chestlyn Draghoender is from Ravensmead in Cape Town. He enjoys writing and singing. chestlynpoet.wordpress.com