The Grip

His hand, a wet fish, quick and limp.

My own, I thought, a better grip.

Firm, not crushing. Just enough

to say, I’m here. I’m real. I’m tough

enough for this, this meeting ground.

But what it says, what can be found

in that quick clasp, that momentary press?

A nervous sweat? A lack of stress?

My father's was a brick, my mother's soft.

Mine, somewhere in between, aloft

in that space where we measure worth.

Another judgment, from the earth

up through the palms. A quick read.

And then the awkward, planted seed.