Every week, my father lays
his small turquoise towel down
on the gray Formica kitchen table,
opens the gold-plated case,
and takes out his nail file, scissors, clipper.
He starts by cleaning each nail slowly,
the file going from one end of his nail
to the other to clean out
the specs of fat and blood.
I stand and watch, 11 years old,
wondering how hands
that would sooner carry sides of beef
than touch another human being
could require so much attention.