# From My Dad I got my dad's thick hands, his broad shoulders that slope like the roof of an old house. I got his silence too— the kind that fills a room like furniture no one chose. His anger was a door that opened without warning. I learned to read the hinge. I got his love of rain, the way he'd stand at the window as if the sky owed him something. His stubborn chin, his walk, the way he'd turn away before the conversation ended. I got his fear of seeming soft, his belief that words were currency best spent on strangers. But I also got this: his hands know how to build, how to hold something broken until it remembers its shape. His silence taught me listening. His anger taught me its opposite. His turning away— well, I'm still learning how to turn back.

From you, Dad,
I learned to fight!
You passed it down to me—
how to hide myself in this fragile frame,
never kneel, never break.

I learned to laugh from you
even when the pain makes the world spin.
Life, you said, is simply living,
swallowing your tears whole.

You taught me to make a fist,
to clench my teeth and stand firm
in what matters, in who I am.
Never betray those you love.
And I did it! I learned it all, willingly.

They call me the 'tough girl'.
Nobody sees, when I'm alone,
how this exhausted body gives way.
I wish to be more woman,
and wish for someone to cover my back.

You taught me to forge a path,
to walk where no path exists, to make the way...
Good things you showed me how to fight for!
Like you, Dad, I love today
with a relentless hand—no mercy, no need for it.
I learned to look like you!