I meet him halfway, 
in a café 
between his home and mine.

My heart rants and rails,
impaled, yet veiled.

We walk slowly—at first—
then we run.
Overwhelmed—together.

He wears a tweed jacket,
rough and fragrant;
hugs me close 
like we’ve known each other always.

Inside the café, we can’t stop, 
can’t stop talking,
—talking—
until I notice his hands, 
his hands.

I take his in my own, 
turn it palm upwards
—mine too—
there’s no doubt:
carbon copies.
Father and daughter meet at last.

Hands revealed.
Hearts unveiled
in the palms of our hands.

© 2019 Polly Stretton