Father

I put the kettle on

when you walk through the door—

not for warmth,

but to drown out

the ache between us.

You talk about

the world unraveling

like it's the weather.

Grey skies. Broken systems.

Nothing to be done.

And I nod,

because arguing

is just another kind of silence.

You see the cracks,

but you stay seated.

I see the cracks,

and I climb through them,

hands bloodied,

building something new.

I wish you would meet me there—

not as the man

who never said sorry,

but as the boy

who once wanted to matter.

We are made of the same fire,

but you burn in place,

and I set out walking.

Still—

there is a part of me

that saves you a seat,

just in case

you decide to come home.