My father’s hand
Was only used on me once or twice that I recall
I remember a parabolic rocket flight across the room
With one of his hands as my personal booster rocket
The shock was more effective than any pain I felt
My father’s hand
Was so big that my mam had to have two watchstraps merged
Just to get around his wrist when she bought him a watch
To replace the one he brought back from Belgium in the war
A hand that defused bombs and mines and cheated death
My father’s hand
That chalked the plates all day down at Laing’s shipyard
Then pored over the union branch books most evenings
Or wrapped itself round a pint or two, or slapped a few backs
And proudly lifted a model of The Boilermaker’s Club – his baby
My father’s hand
That shrank and grew thin as all of him did at the end
His wife long gone, and young brother also before him
That no union official or member came to shake in farewell
That had no strength left to wave goodbye to an empty room
I wish I’d held that hand.
