A father’s love is strongly felt
but sadly, not often shown.
He wears it like a heavy crown
wrought in metal or stone.

And like a king, it’s difficult
to let your true self be known;
a king who reveals his conscience,
will soon be overthrown.

Our love is a language revealed
and seen through children’s eyes
an improvised vocabulary
only children can devise.

Huddled under a tiny blanket
in a single bed
counting stars through the open window
just above our heads.

Ice cream eaten from the same bowl
two straws in lemonade.
The flea-sized crimes that they commit
the 'cross-my-hearts' made.

Feverishly spun yarns of mischief
school yard shenanigans galore
when I think he has no more to tell
he always tells me more.

Melting chunks of chocolate held out
in an open grimy hand
still wet with mud from the garden
and grimier still with sand.

In the hot, strong, tearful embrace
he gave to me that day
at the entrance to his classroom,
where he turned and walked away.

A pall of hurt and sadness
draped over his skinny frame
like a rain soaked rag worn by a beggar
too weary to beg for change.

The more I see him the more I miss him
like trees miss sunny weather.
He shares the burden with me
since we no longer live together.

We will meet again, and part again,
and again and again and again
How many years? How many tears?
Who will he seek to blame?

And even though it hurts us both
I‘m stung by the amount of pain
he bears on shoulders bent far too soon
on his skinny eight year-old frame.

The weight of this understanding
does not have yet have a name.
Cyclical, habitual, hot as steel
thrown back in the fire again.

Time is, for him, a mystery
but certainly he knows
when it comes to dad,
he waits for me to come
and then to go.