"father, father"

father, father—

you’d call out from the back room

as though the sound alone

could steady the rafters.

I kept a narrow plot behind the house,

panes catching the early light,

a place where I could watch

what you were becoming.

You thought it was only a greenhouse,

but I built it so you’d have somewhere

to set your questions down.

You’d wander in, barefoot,

asking how things grow,

why some shoots falter

and others rise without prompting.

I’d answer in the plain way I knew,

not because the lessons were simple

but because you needed them

without ornament.

father, father—

you’d say it again

when a line refused its place,

when a page felt uneven

or too heavy in its weight.

I’d show you how to lift the soil,

how to read the roots

without unsettling them,

how to wait for the right hour

before touching anything at all.

You never noticed

how often I stood at the door

listening to you read aloud

to no one,

testing each phrase

like fruit in your hands.

I didn’t interrupt.

Some things find their moment

only when left alone.

father, father—

you’d call from the threshold

when the day turned difficult,

and I’d answer

the way I always did:

step inside,

take what you need,

leave what you can’t carry yet.

I didn’t teach you poems.

I only built the place

where they could take shape.

.