His hands

my dad’s hands tell stories he’ll never say out loud, built from long days he carries like a cloud early mornings, late nights that don’t end, doing it all just so we can stand his back holds weight no one else can see, not just the work— but the worry for me he doesn’t talk much about what it costs, how much he’s given, how much he’s lost just comes home tired, still asking my day, like his whole world didn’t wear him away and i don’t say it as much as i should, but i see every sacrifice, i know that he would give everything up just to make sure i’m fine— so his hard days don’t become mine and maybe one day i’ll find the right way to thank him for all he gives every day.