It hurt
when I fell
off my bike,
skinning my knees
against the asphalt.

I looked up in shock,
my mouth a perfect O.
It wasn't until I saw
the blood,
streaming down my shins,
that I began to wail.

Over the crest of the hill,
I saw my father,
running to me,
his face creased with worry.

Without hesitation,
he picked me up, held me
in his arms.
I clung to him, helpless
as I was, sobbing into his neck.

He assured me that it was fine
I was fine
He was there, and
Nothing would hurt me.

Later, once home, bandaged and clean,
he threw away his favorite,
now-bloodstained, sky blue shirt.


It hurts more now
when I fall off my bike.
When he's no longer there to help me
back up,
wipe away the blood,
and promise me that I'm safe.