Tiny Hand

Your tiny hand fits perfectly in mine,

so small and fragile, resting in the palm of my hand,

as the scent of your fresh baby smell

tickles the tip of my nose.

I hold you close to my heart so you can feel

my heart pounding with fear of losing you.

My heart rate accelerates,

as it occurs to me,

I have no idea what I’m doing.

There’s no way of keeping you safe

from the harsh reality you must face.

Already motherless

and a surgery that almost took you away too,

leaving you with a father that doesn’t know

what to do with his grief trying to be brave for you.

Trying to imagine how I can protect someone

so small and innocent,

from a world that is already fighting against you.

But staring into your innocent, unknowing eyes,

I know we can get through this together,

but still wishing you came with some type of directions,

so there’s less of a chance of screwing this up.

Holding you close to me, knowing that one day,

you’re not going to want me to hold you this tightly,

with your head pressed against my chest

and my arms grasped around you.

One day your head will press against another’s

looking for warmth and safety,

but I hope you will still lean on my shoulder

no matter how old you get,

even after I walk you down the aisle.

I kiss your practically bald head,

hoping one day someone treats you this gently

and that you don’t expect anything less.

Hoping you don’t let what happens to you,

twist how you should be treated.

I hold your tiny hand in mine and hope

you will let me be your dad,

even though I have no idea what I’m doing.

However, I do know,

that I want you to be my family

and through all this sadness and sorrow,

you somehow make it beautiful,

with your fragile smile and tiny hands.

I know you’ll have many questions for me one day,

to answers, I won’t have,

but know, we can get through this crazy unfair thing called life,

as long as I have you and you have me

and I hold your tiny hand in mine as long as you allow me.