The tale in this poem was told to me by a woman from Tennessee, and in writing this poem, I tried to capture the inflections of her voice and bit of her own personality. She had heard I wrote poems and wanted me to tell her story. CH
My Daddy's Hands
My daddy's hands been all over me,
He been inside me, too.
First time he came to my room
I was thirteen and too scairt to scream.
I didn't know what to do,
Jest laid there all afraid
And let him do as he pleased.
I had heard him and my momma
Rockin' the bed in their room
And once in awhile a moan or two;
Jest thought they was a-fightin' again.
I was young, how I was I to know
What grown ups did in the dark,
Under the covers of their bed?
Daddy always liked to watch me
When I was washin' in the shower
We had out behind the house.
He always had a smile on his face,
Told me to face him so he'd see all of me.
Said I was gonna grow up to be
A right pretty woman one day soon.
After momma found out about daddy
Comin' to my room in the night
She hugged me tight and dried my tears.
She was sad to learn I was a woman now
And that daddy didn't mean me no harm.
Wasn't long afore she stopped huggin' me,
Left me alone like she didn't care no more.
Daddy kept comin' to my room
Two or three times a week or so,
And still afeared, I let him have his way.
He liked touchin' my hair and growin' breasts,
Always had his rough hands all over me.
I'm ashamed to say it, though,
But sometimes it felt real good.
The summer I turned seventeen,
I ran off with a trucker from Memphis
Who had a fancy rig with a sleeper in back.
He took care of me, bought me clothes,
As long as I pleasured him at night.
His hands weren't rough like daddy's
And I liked sleepin' with him each night.
Five years later, with a baby in my arms
And another growin' in my belly,
I stopped at my old home to see momma.
Daddy, now old and crippled, told me
Momma's gone, buried in the churchyard.
I wiped away a tear and at last knew
Daddy's hands won't be on me no more.
Ths is a sad story. I feel bad for the child. Good thing she was not my daughter, or daddy would have been in big trouble. You did an excellent write.
I should imagine this was a hard story to tell but you did a very sympathetic job here, heartbreak for the child floods through each line. I hope she grew up to find herself.
Wow! Such a gripping and sad story. I feel bad for that lady. Glad you complied with her wish to have her story be known. I think she would like the way you wrote this in her behalf.
Carl, you have once again mastered the pen and sent us a story that is usually kelp behind doors. This had to be told and I'm sure that it must have left its mark on you, but we as poets must do the good and the bad. Just a great writing from the masters hand.