I know my father.
A man never abandoned
always forgiven
never asked to carry a weight that bent his back.

A boy who never chased a dream
never felt the hunger that keeps you awake at night.
Life was gentle with him.
When storms came,
he didn’t have to run home,
home was already warm
waiting
unchanged.

As a child, he was loved
and never lost the things he loved.

But life shifted when he had a daughter.
The ground hardened beneath his feet.
He wished then that he had built something stronger,
worked harder while the clock was still his.

Maybe that’s why his voice became stone.
Why did his love feel like punishment.
Why did he tell me things a father should never speak aloud —
told me I should just die
if I couldn’t carry the weight,
told me to walk away
if I couldn’t win the fight.

How could he carve wounds into my skin
when his own had never been cut?

He was once like me,
but fate wrote him a softer story
and now he writes mine with sharper ink.