Father's hands were always warm,
dry,
callous.
Father's love was always kind,
strict,
confusing.
Father's name was never father.
Yet he spelled it for the crowd.
Father had no daughters,
but I played his Mother proud.
Food was steaming from its ***,
served to him each day.
And surely times we often fought,
but we always found a better way.
When we met his world was grey,
and now he asks me why I stay.
I always ask if he's okay,
but never does Father want to play.
Father always hides away.
In the house he sits on the couch,
with a good book in his hand.
I say, "Won't you smile at Mother?"
He says, "I don't think I can."
His 32 wisdom teeth,
cause me to misunderstand.
I sail to be his atmosphere,
never hitting land.

But Father is a genuine diamond,
a shine among the dust.
He may be a rough,
but with dedication he'll earn trust.
I'll never be the wife of Father.
I'll never know his love,
but he can be with others
...its hard...
but helping him is enough.