When you arrived—
it was as though a gentle season
descended into the barren branches of my life.
Your very first cry
wasn’t just a sound—
it was the divine’s soft whisper,
breathing meaning into my soul.
That day I learned—
being a father isn't a role,
it is a quiet fire,
an eternal offering,
where every smile of yours
became the altar
on which I placed my very being.
When your tiny fingers wrapped around mine,
it wasn’t just a grasp—
it was trust incarnate.
A promise that no matter how stormy the world,
you were safe in the shelter of my arms.
Your tiny footsteps
became the rhythm
to which my heart began to beat anew.
And in your wordless gaze,
I discovered
the eloquence of silence.
Your cheeks held the colors of dawn,
painting joy on every corner of our home.
Then you began to grow—
not just taller,
but deeper.
Your laughter lit up walls like lanterns,
your stubbornness, too, was precious—
for it held questions,
curiosities I longed to answer.
Your dreams were small then,
but their colors were so true,
I often wished to wear them myself.
The first time you stood on stage,
eyes wide, heart racing—
I saw in your gaze
a reflection of my own pride.
And when failure first brushed you,
and tears slipped from your lashes,
I learned
that true love doesn’t fix,
it simply stays.
My dearest daughter,
you are not my weakness—
you are my light.
You are the radiance
that made others see me
not for what I had done,
but for who you had become.
When people say,
“Oh, you’re her father?”
their admiration softens their voice—
and my heart swells,
silently thanking the heavens
for letting me be part of your name.
Because of you,
I tried harder,
stood straighter,
lived deeper.
In your laughter,
I heard songs
that the world had forgotten.
Now you are growing—
your eyes hold new dreams,
your thoughts seek their own sky.
But know this:
to me,
you are still the same
little girl
who slept on my chest,
listening to the drum of my heart
as if it was the whole universe.
Wherever you go,
whenever you're tired,
afraid,
or simply wish to be still—
your father
will remain
your quiet shade,
your steady arms,
your eternal home
where you can be a child again.
Your mother often says
I’m too emotional with you.
Maybe she’s right—
for I have seen myself
melting gently into your name.
You are my pride, my daughter—
not just in the eyes of the world,
but in the eyes of the man
I have become because of you.
In you,
my identity is written—
and I trust it
more than I trust the stars.
You are my poem, my prayer,
a sacred verse woven into my breath.
Daughter, because you are—
I am.
— Your Papa
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