My daughter holds a top in her hands
wood and acrillically pink with faint blue stripes.
When she spins it on the tile floor
it goes fast enough to emit a halo.
And she wears it
well.

I want to pick her up at those times
and remind her that her father
is a good man.
Regardless
of what his hands
have done to others.

I find myself sometimes
wondering about another child
and a spinning top
with paint of red and gold
no halo, but sparks
like an art.

I took my gloves off when
I touched his shoulder
to tell him it was okay, son,
but it wasn't.
And I know he was terrified of
such a good man,
with safe hands.

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