I WRITE WHERE I AM QUIET

Dear Dad,
I don't know how to begin
Because I never knew how to find you.

Your name came to me late in life,
Like a door finally labeled
After years of standing outside it.
I said it quietly at first,
testing the sound
Wondering what it carried.

I don't know your voice.
I don't know your hands
Or whether you ever noticed
March 31st come and go each year,
The day your daughter was born.

I grew up with questions instead of answers.
Your absence wasn't loud
It was a quiet space,
An empty chair I learned not to look at,
For too long.
I wondered if you knew I existed,
Or if the world simply moved too fast
And left us both behind.

I was taken when I was seven.
Placed into homes
Where I learned survival early.
I became shy.
Introverted.
Observant.
I learned to take care of others
Because it felt safer
Than needing care myself.

There were moments I needed 
A protector,
A father's presence,
Someone to say, "This is not okay."
Instead, I learned how to endure.
How to speak quietly.
How to keep going.

I don't know where life placed you
While I was growing up,
Or what storms you were weathering.
I don't know if you would have come
For me
If you had known how lost I felt.

I've carried anger at times
Not Sharp,
But heavy.
The kind that asks
Why didn't anyone come?
Why did I grow up alone in this?

Still, I don't write this to accuse you.
I write because blood remembers
Even when stories are missing.
Because part of me has always
Wondered
If something of me lives in you
A quietness,
A stubborn will to survive,
A love that doesn't know where to land.

I want you to know this:
I made it.
Despite everything.
Despite the silence.
Despite never knowing
Whether I crossed your mind.

I am still here.
Still standing.
Still learning who I am
Without the map I should have had.

If you ever wondered
What became of the child connected
To your name,
This is your answer.

I exist.
I endured.
And I carry the truth with me,
Even when it's incomplete.

Your daughter