i found silenced grief in my father's wristwatch
does he reminisce the golden days like i do?
once in a while, i look at my father's face
and notice the wrinkles —
do they come from worry,
or are they the scars of his sins?

sometimes, i walk down memory lane,
re-reading letters that are so dear to me
today, i found “happy birthday”
written on three sticky notes
in different styles —
i couldn't recognise my father's handwriting

the notes didn’t make me happy
they were reminders —
reminders that he missed
my last few birthdays
that he’ll never know my favourite colour
or why
i plan my own funeral so often

the notes still sit
untouched in my tiny box-
like him,
they say "happy birthday"
but never stay long enough to mean it

maybe love was quieter in his hands
and maybe that's what i'll ever get-
not presence,
not warmth,
just time,
and a man i call my father
who never stayed long enough