A Story of My Father

He never held me soft, nor sang me sleep, Yet watched me through the night, his vigil deep.

In calloused hands, he held our heavy sky, So I could reach for stars, and learn to fly.

He wore his tired like an old, faded shirt, Each wrinkle earned, each line a hidden hurt.

I never saw him break, not once, not ever— He stood like oak through every storm and weather.

His dreams he folded small, tucked out of sight, And placed my name where his should have been bright.

No tears he shed, no word of love he said, But every step I take was by him led.

He gave me roots when I was blown apart, A quiet harbor, steady, near his heart.

And if this world should ever make me fall, His shadow still stands tallest of them all.

He asked for nothing. Gave me everything. My unsung hero. My first, true king.