Dad, you know

Dad, you know, maybe I got it wrong. Maybe I said too much, too soon, too sharply. Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped it all like a stone in your hands.

But here’s the thing: I’m me. And I never learned how to be anything else. Maybe I should’ve. But I didn’t. And maybe it came too late, but now it’s out there. Now you know. And for the first time, you looked at me and saw me. Not the version you built. Just me. And everything, finally, fit.

Maybe you gave me all you could. Maybe that’s all love is: what you have and what the other can carry. And now you’re gone, and I’m still here with all of it – the weight, the wonder, the ache, the gift.

I told you what I had to. I tried, Dad. I swear I did. Every damn day of my life. But I stayed that boy in your eyes – the one who needed less feeling, more lessons. But how can you teach life when your own never made sense? When your heart was a place you didn’t visit?

You know, Dad, I don’t dream much. But now and then, you show up – alive, unsuspecting. And I panic. Because I know something you don’t. And every time, I’m afraid I’ll say it. That I’ll look at you and break it all with one line: Dad… you died.

You know, Dad… I…


Русская версия: http://stihi.ru/2025/04/22/5319