letter from my father

We have the same hand,
although the lines are different,
criss-crossing meanings and visions are different;
I am born of his thought,
my father, fragile now
from the weight that he bore on his shoulders;
The grave decisions that brought us over,
made us,
a unit;
His writing, the keen curves
and solid lines,
the dots over the i’s
and some doodles of beautiful things,
that were in a letter he wrote to me,
a long time ago;
He pictures the journeys I must take,
roads I must know before I grow old,
he urges me to find my niche;
How deep is this ink?
that runs like blood,
so many shades,
so much love,
is wedged in between words,
from a father to daughter;
And I have kept it to myself,
grown fond of the treasured token;
The fraying edges of the yellowing paper,
brittle and falling apart,
at my touch,
but I remember,
where every letter is positioned,
where the para ends and a new one begins…

© SoulReserve 2015

(For poetryriot Prompt “Find Your Niche”)

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