A poem I wrote for my Dad:
He who raised a man
out of a daughter.
You—
Father as forge,
Father as flame.
I wore battle armor
not made of iron,
but of your knowing.
Your warnings were the map.
Your voice—compass.
Your silence—shield.
The jungle path was cruel,
but thorns parted.
Leeches recoiled.
The snakes uncoiled.
The poison never touched my lips.
Because you saw it first.
Because you stood between.
The world says
gods are myths.
They never met
the man who held up the sky
like Atlas,
his back trembling,
but never bending
for me.
You were Sisyphus,
pushing that stone
up the hill of my future,
knowing it would fall—
letting it crush you
before it ever grazed me.
They heard me,
but they never listened.
You did.
In your affection
I found my sword.
In your silence,
my shield.
You raised not a girl,
but a warrior
who walks without fear—
because you loved without fail.
From the bottom of my heart
to the depths of my soul,
from the beginning of time
to the end of the world:
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