Father Cleaning My Nails

My index finger nestles in your hand.
You run a penknife’s blade beneath the nail.
Discomfort is a thing we understand.

Bony, thirteen, I’m unsure how to stand
before so large a man. It must seem frail,
my middle finger nestled in your hand.

Although your face is darker than wet sand,
against your fleshy palm I’m not so pale.
Discomfort’s nothing, really. I understand

not to desire too much of you, demand
your shadow linger through the day’s bright veil.
Look how the ring finger resists the hand

as though it were suspicious of such grand
care. Finally, it surrenders to ritual:
Discomfort’s just the thing. You understand

I crushed it once, that now it hurts so damned
much when you ran the knife beneath its nail.
Still, still, the finger nestles in your hand.
Discomfort is a thing we understand.