My Father's Hand

My father’s hand paused
then moved again,
cautious,
as if I might
push him away.
But I was still and quiet.
 
His hand was authority and kindness in the daylight.
but something different in the dark.
His hand touched the braids my mother  
tied before school that morning.
He said I was pretty.  
 
The air conditioner cycled on.
The hum of its fan was a relief  
against the silence.
A fresh gust of cool air danced
across my bare breasts.
 
I waited.  
His heart pounded inches away.
I knew where this would end.