♡ 𝙼𝚢 𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝙳𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 ♡

I don’t know how to explain it  

without sounding like I’m bragging  

or grieving.  

I just move through the world  

with him in my posture.  

Shoulders back, even when  

my heart is tired.  

Eyes open, even when  

I want to believe everyone’s good.  

He didn’t sit me down  

with rules.  

He just was.  

And I watched.  

How he listened.  

How he waited before he spoke.  

How he could be soft  

without ever looking weak.  

How he loved people  

and still knew where the door was.  

So I’m different, I guess.  

Not louder. Not harder.  

Just… awake.  

I feel everything,  

and I clock everything.  

I’ll cry with you  

and I’ll still notice  

if your hands shake  

when you say you’re fine.  

I am my father’s daughter.  

Which means I don’t know how  

to love halfway.  

Or trust blind.  

Or let my guard down  

just because the room is warm.  

It’s not fear.  

It’s muscle memory.  

It’s him saying stay ready  

without ever opening his mouth.  

Sometimes I wish I could be  

like the others.  

Looser. Less careful.  

Less like I’m always  

listening for footsteps.  

But then I remember  

how safe I felt  

just standing next to him.  

And I realize —  

this is safe.  

This is what safe feels like  

when you were raised by someone  

who made sure  

you could make it  

without him.  

So I keep his quiet in me.  

I keep the way he paid attention  

like a second heartbeat.  

I keep the part of him  

that never stopped watching  

so I would never have to  

learn by breaking.  

If you knew him,  

you’ll see him  

in the way I don’t rush.  

In the way I don’t fall  

for the easy version  

of people.  

In the way I can be  

all in  

and still have one foot  

planted in truth.  

I am my father’s daughter.  

And I miss him  

in the way I live.  

Soft, mostly.  

But never, ever  

unready.  

-𝕃ℝ 🖤