The Back Of The Hand Poem by M. A Heathcote

To further exercise his tired arms and wrists
I was regularly given the back of the hand—
That was my father's kind of love for me.
Like Mary Oliver's poem, Hurricane
He'd roll in drunk most evenings from work.
After eight or nine large jugs, I guess.
And then he'd eavesdrop on fibs and tall tales.
And then his arms and fists would flail about.
They would stretch out into wild gales.
Like those thrashing turbine windmill blades
And uproot me by my hair off the floor.

Lift me onto my bed so that I'd stand his height
Was more in keeping with his towering stature
And then his fist would rain down -slantwise.
With their back-of-the-hand blows
This was my father's true repugnance of me.
This was his underlying love for me.
A drunken Hurricane, and with his final words
Came the biggest of all his bitter blows…
After years of disinterest and abstinence from me.
He relayed his closing message: You're no son of mine.
And still he managed to make me feel small.
Like a withering stalk of lost wheat in a storm.