His Hands

As a kid, I used to look at him to find the resemblance. The clues to help determine if he was my father. My mother said so.

Where exactly does our DNA match and how does it show up physically, I wondered. I looked. Do I look like him?

Born his illegitimate daughter, because my parents didn’t marry, I wanted to know too. Is he my father? The gossip. The rumors. His absence. We looked similar, but don’t most black people that are mixed with this and that?

Our hair didn’t match – usually a tale tale sign for a black person – first place they look. His hair texture – the texture that most black people craved when I was young – jet-black, soft, silky, long, wavy, hair. Less African. More European.

I would ask myself over and over again in my head, each time I was in his presence. Is he my daddy?

As I got older, and began to fine-tune my observation skills, observing more than talking, I saw it! I have my father’s hands…his hands, I declared to myself!

I looked twice and then again. I looked at his impressive vein pattern- like roads. Looked at his nail bed; they’re mine. His knuckles. The length of his fingers – a bit short, stubby, thick fingers. Strong. Manly.

Now being a female/woman with “man hands” is NOT cute! And your hands ‘better NOT be ashy and rough to the touch – that makes them look 👀 and feel, more manly.

For sure, I resemble my father, not just his hands but half of his DNA – his wit and humor, his desire for learning, and his hard work supporting his family. I observed those attributes too. 🧬

Next time you’re around your parents or grandparents, compare hands, ears, toes and feet. Really look at yours and theirs. DNA shows up in unlikely places!

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