He was the man of the family,
forecd, he didn't want to be but he stood up.
A scrappy, curly haired boy who - instead of toys - had
courage.
He hated his father.
Because he didn't know the meaning until
he was one.
His sharp edges, and cellophane words meant he never heard
my cheers on the sideline.
He never knew how proud I was that he was mine.
Fleshy, but retract. If he saw me react,
it was hidden. Two times I saw him
cry.
My dog and his mother, things in him died
those days. Loyalty, responsibility, and love.
He was was like a strong thing that had been given a shove.
And then she went, was gone.
When she went. He strode up towards me,
the hero, the pick-me-up, the Dad I'd needed,
he went on a journey himself, he had to pull
down things that were on a shelf,
picked up stones,
ensured that his children were not alone.
When he walked up that lane
in his leather jacket, arms outsretrched,
I still can't thank him yet. For being my
hero, my Dad, my rock.
If we only have one left, I'm glad it's you, we've got.
