My father speaks in smaller ways,
not always through his voice,
but in the doors he held for us,
the sacrifices, quiet choices.
He wore exhaustion like a coat
and carried storms alone,
just so our little world could feel
safe, steady, warm as home.
And though he rarely said “I love you,”
we understood somehow,
because love was in the life he built
with tired hands and bowed brow.
