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Today’s a day I’ll not forget, when Daddy walks me

   down the aisle,

then turns and lifts my veil to see my loving smile.

He’ll place a kiss upon my cheek; that’s what daddies do,

and I’ll whisper through my tears, “Daddy, I love you.”

He finished college, married mom, then at twenty-four

said that he would serve his country, signed up for the Corps.

He fought to help the helpless in a foreign land,

when one day a bomb went off, severing his hand.

Many months of rehab were spent at Walter Reed

where tears and sweat were requisite for Daddy to succeed.

Those were days I don’t remember; I was only three,

but I recall the loving way he bounced me on his knee.

As I think back throughout my life, it’s all I’ve ever known.

He never made excuses; it was something that he owned.

It wasn’t rough and calloused, neither was it tanned,

but I’ve always felt the love of Daddy’s hand.

When I was young my friends would ask, “Jan, how did it feel

to hold your daddy’s hand when it was made of steel?

Was it cold, was it sharp, did he wear a glove?”

I never even noticed; all I ever felt was love.

He never hid it from me, worked on his technique;

he could lift a strand of hair from my little cheek.

With that hand of steel, he had wonderful control.

I know his love for me came deep within his soul.

Later when we dance, friends and family will see

in my smile just how much Daddy means to me.

While others may see steel and never understand,

I’ll feel the love that flows through the tip of Daddy’s hand.