Fathers' Day

I remember him.

A man who carried his suffering like old coins in his pocket—

quiet, heavy, never spent.

He educated them—

all his children, sons and daughters—

filled their mouths with books when his own stomach growled.

Loved his girls a little more,

not because they were weak,

but because he knew the world would treat their softness

like something to peel apart.

Now he sits in his silence,

a chair creaking under the weight of their forgetting.

"Mama, take the money," they say.

"Men waste it on women and drink."

"Baba was a drunkard," they say.

"Baba never worked hard."

But I remember.

Baba, it wasn’t the alcohol that drowned you—

it was their mouths, always pouring blame,

never swallowing their share.

Yesterday, she paid the rent,

and now the whole neighborhood knows

my pride fits in her purse.

Her mother called, said:

"Stop bleeding my daughter dry."

As if love is a wound,

and I am the knife.

She left.

Took my Brian with her.

All because I sell beer to men

who drink their own silences.

I can’t sleep.

My presence is a stain.

Even my legs on the table—

abomination, dear friend.

"Why can’t you find work?"

"What plans do you have for us?"

Baba, you never answered.

So I won’t either.

Baba Brian can’t complain.

They never take the blame.