What dads do

He doesn’t talk to me now. A boy filled with his mother's ire, and my brother's contempt. A decision that comes when boys become something else.

I used to know how to be his father. Tie the shoes,

hold the line,

be the laugh in the hallway

after a bad day.

Now I’m mostly

a shadow in his rearview,

a name in his contacts.

He's too busy now,

living his life.

I miss him.

But I don’t say it.

That’s not what dads do.

We fix what’s broken.

We nod when they leave the room.

We're the first ones they push away from the dock.

And it's our job to make sure they do so safely

and stand there in case we're needed one day.

That doesn't mean we don't feel lost,

seeing your son row away,

in a boat we helped build.

And sometimes

when no one’s watching

we sit on the dock

behind the shed

after dark

just to let silence and tears

have their say.

And try to accept the irony

that we can't live without

the one we helped live without us.