This one’s for the dads who stayed,
who learnt as they went along,
who got half of it completely wrong
but still kept turning up strong.
For the dads on school run mornings,
half awake and running late,
making packed lunches at stupid o’clock,
then waiting outside the gate.
For the single dads doing both,
with no applause and little rest,
trying to be calm, cook tea,
and somehow still give their best.
I raised mine from 4, 6 and 10,
through every laugh, row and fear,
now they’re 16, 18 and 22,
and somehow those years disappeared.
I’ve watched small shoes become grown feet,
heard little voices change,
stood back as they found their own roads,
while mine felt oddly strange.
I didn’t do it perfectly,
I doubt any honest dad can,
but I stayed through every difficult year,
and did the best I could as a man.
This one’s for the stepdads too,
the ones who chose to care,
who never asked whose blood they had,
they simply turned up there.
I was a stepdad for 10 years
to 3 who weren’t mine by blood,
but I’d have defended every one
through fire, fear or flood.
They might not be in my life today,
but that love does not just end,
you can lose the place you held with them,
but still protect them in your head.
Because being Dad is not just DNA,
a surname or a face,
sometimes it’s being the steady one
when life feels out of place.
It’s teaching bikes and tying laces,
late lifts and broken sleep,
remembering tiny details
they never knew you’d keep.
This one’s for the alienated dads,
whose silence is not choice,
who stare at old photos late at night
just to hear a missing voice.
For the men allowed a weekend,
or an hour squeezed in somewhere,
who count the days between each hug
and pretend that it feels fair.
For the dads whose children became weapons
in a war they never chose,
who bite their tongue to shield the child
from things that child should never know.
This is not a blame aimed at mums,
or a battle dressed in rhyme,
good mums deserve their flowers too,
but today the dads get time.
Because some men leave, that much is true,
and some should have done more,
but some keep knocking, writing, fighting,
at a firmly bolted door.
Some pay, provide and still get told
their love must wait its turn,
while birthdays pass through photographs
and Father’s Days still burn.
This one’s for the dads who lost a child,
or never got to meet,
who carry names inside their chest
and grief beneath their feet.
For foster dads and grandads,
for brothers filling space,
for every man who stepped right in
when life removed a face.
For new dads scared to hold them,
convinced they’ll get it wrong,
then finding out that tired arms
can still be safe and strong.
For dads who work the late shift,
then crawl home worn and sore,
but still get down to play somehow
the second they hit the door.
For the quiet dads who rarely say
the things they truly feel,
but fix the bike, check every lock,
and ask if you’ve had a meal.
Some dads show love with speeches,
some dads show love with deeds,
some build a home from almost nothing
and give before their needs.
So here’s to every decent dad,
by blood, by choice, by name,
the ones still there, the ones shut out,
the love remains the same.
You do not need to be flawless,
or have every answer planned,
sometimes being Dad just means
they know you’ll take their hand.
And to the children missing fathers,
through distance, death or pain,
I hope one day the truth feels clear,
and love finds room again.
Fatherhood is not one picture,
one household, path or plan,
it’s choosing every single day
to be the one who gives a damn.
So Happy Father’s Day to all of you,
still trying, bruised and glad,
because the world sees many kinds of men…
but a child remembers Dad.