The Gift by:Li- Yong Lee To pull the metal splinter from my palm,my father recited a story in a low voice I watched his lovely face and not the blade.Before the story ended,he'd removed the iron silver i thought i'd die from.I cant remember the tale,but hear his voice still,a well of dark water,a prayer.And i recall his hands,two measures of tenderness he laid against my face,the flames of discipline he raised above my head.Had u entered the afternoon,you would have thought you saw a man planting something in a boy's plam,a silver tear,a tiny flame.Had u followed that boy,u would have arrived here,where i bend over my wife's right hand.Look how i shave her thumbnail down so carefully she feels no pain.Watch as i lift the splinter out I was seven when my father took my hand like this,and i did not hold that shard between my fingers and think,metal that will bury me,christen it,little assassin,ore going deep for my heart.And i did not lift up my wound and cry,death visited here!I did what a child does,when he's given something to keep.I kissed my father.作者写这首诗是为了纪念自己的爸爸,一个把自己从鬼门关拉回来的爸爸.