The click-clack of my keyboard has given me anxiety
One thousand words have been typed,
One thousand dreadful more to go
My father says he likes it when I type,
Te ves como toda una profesional
detras de la computadora
He grabs my hands – contrasting colors
against one another.
He holds my hands and I notice a new callous that
was not there before.
12-hour shifts and bosses who think he is
because he cannot speak their
with perfect precision.
I understand why he likes it when I type,
My hands are so smooth against his own.
Manos de niña educada.
He pats my hands,
and I can see the tiredness in his eyes
because he rises before the sun
and the porch light turning on is
his sunset and welcome home.
He lets my hands go,
allowing me to continue my work.
One thousand more words to go
Maybe even more, just for you