I once thought:

my hands were my mother’s.

Upon further inspection

I realized

my knuckles

and the grasping

toward more

was my father’s.

I once thought

my smile was my mother’s.

But then I discovered

my teeth, my eyes

the way I fall prey

to how others need pleasing —

those belonged to my father,

instead.

A joke that begs

for laughter

and impatience that lingers

in a crowd

and boredom that erupts

in steady silence

of sitting still —

my father.

My mother gave me words

my mother

shared her hands

to write each word

letter

by

letter,

and my father:

my father

was the one

whose bellow

showed me

how volume

is not the same

as writing

in bold.