My Father’s Walk

I shake your hand now
our fingers match

we hug
with men between us
speaking concisely
on politics
your silence
breaking the bones of my points
with eyes too similar to ever meet
your hurtling rage
floods forward to drown the water
I drank
hurling us back
our conversation
half spelt
inside the torn kitchen
I grew my first words in
when your face reminded me
of a hurting caravan
and your solid heels were all I had to look up to.