When you came into my arms,
a flower arrived, wrapped in fragrance,
as if God had placed
His most tender blessing
in the cradle of my chest.
Your first cry—
it wasn’t sorrow,
but the sweetest music
to ever touch my ears.
In your mother’s weary eyes,
I saw heaven unfold quietly.
Your first steps were not just steps—
they were a season blooming
in the parched desert of routine.
And when you first called me “Papa,”
I wasn’t merely a man anymore—
I was transformed,
I became whole.
You grew,
from dollhouses and chasing butterflies,
each day a canvas
colored with your laughter.
Kissing your scraped knees
felt like healing my own wounds.
Your small victories
became my grand celebrations.
When you brought home
your first school prize,
I saw the most precious medal—
not around your neck,
but hanging proudly inside my heart.
You kept growing—
questions in your voice,
dreams in your eyes,
sometimes annoyed with me,
sometimes hiding in my arms, weeping softly.
In every twist and turn,
I searched for pieces of myself in you.
Your courage became my anchor,
your smile, my wealth.
They say daughters are meant to leave,
but you—
you became my root,
my reflection,
the center of my dignity.
Wherever you walked beside me,
people would touch my shoulder and say,
“Is she your daughter?
So wise, so graceful.”
And I would silently
thank the universe.
You gave me pride
without ever asking,
gave me recognition
with quiet grace.
Because of you,
people see me as a good father.
Because of you,
my image in the mirror became gentler,
brighter.
Daughter,
you are not just my child—
you are the most beautiful poem
I could never write.
In the folds of your being
lie truths no scripture holds.
Make mistakes,
stumble,
even fall if you must—
I will always be yours.
Behind you.
Beside you.
A silent guardian
to your every storm.
I am proud of you—
of your innocence,
your wild dreams,
your quiet endurance.
You are older now,
and your world expands—
but your roots run deep
through the chambers of my heart.
And if ever,
the world fails to understand you,
return home.
I won’t need words—
my eyes will remind you
of who you are.
You are not just my daughter,
you are my story,
my soul’s softest whisper.
When people say,
“He is the father of that daughter,”
I gather in that moment
every joy the universe could offer.
With every breath,
every silence,
every quiet pride—
I am yours.
Forever your Papa.
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