Father, Father Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'father, father'


father, father—
you'd call out from the back room
as though the sound alone
could steady the rafters.

I kept a small plot behind the house,
glass walls catching the morning,
a place where I could watch
what you were becoming.
You thought it was only a greenhouse,
but I built it so you'd have somewhere
to set your questions down.

You'd wander in barefoot,
asking how things grow,
why some shoots falter
and others rise without prompting.
I'd answer in the plain way I knew,
not because the lessons were simple
but because you needed them
without ornament.

father, father—
you'd say it again
when a line refused to settle,
when a page felt too heavy
or too thin.
I'd show you how to lift the soil,
how to check the roots
without disturbing them,
how to wait for the right hour
before touching anything at all.

You never noticed
how often I stood at the door
listening to you read aloud
to no one,
testing the weight of each phrase
like fruit in your hands.
I didn't interrupt.
Some things ripen
only when left alone.

father, father—
you'd call from the threshold
when the day turned difficult,
and I'd answer
the way I always did:
step inside,
take what you need,
leave what you can't carry yet.

I didn't teach you poems.
I only built the place
where they could grow.








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