In the quiet corners of our home,


a splash of sunlight spills like laughter


across the worn kitchen table,


where your hands dance over the morning,


crafting pancakes shaped like dreams,


soft and round,


as stories spill out,


layered with syrup-sweet memories.

You are the anchor in a sea


of scraped knees and skyward wishes,


teaching me to weave the threads of courage


into the fabric of my days,


your sturdy silhouette framed by the doorway,


a lighthouse in the fog of childhood fears.


I watch as you reach for the stars


with calloused hands,


both firm and gentle,


and in that strength,


I find a world where anything


is possible, where I can believe


in the magic of my own voice.

Do you remember the evenings


when we chased fireflies,


their golden glow matching


the twinkle in your eye?


You taught me that wonder


is not hidden away in far-off places


but lingers in the warmth of dusk


and the promise of a wish upon a star.

With every tale spun beneath


the vast blanket of night,


you crafted ethereal maps


that guided me through the wild,


unraveled fears,


and made laughter my compass.

Now, as I take steps into the world,


I carry your whispers in my heart,


each echo a steadying hand,


teaching me that to be brave


is to be soft,


that vulnerability is a strength


more powerful than steel.

You are not perfect,


nor were you made to be,


but in every faltering step


and every wild dream you dared to dream,


you sculpted not just a father,


but a sanctuary—a home


where love gently carves its mark


into the tapestry of my life.

And as I journey onwards,


I hold in my soul


the lessons you have sown,


the love that blooms


in the spaces between us,


a garden rooted deep,


where I will forever wander


through memories,


knowing with every heartbeat,


I am still your child.