Beneath the weight of dawn’s first light,  

He rises, steady, out of sight 

A shadow stretched by duty’s hand,  

A pillar built on shifting sand.  

The man who wasn’t there

Was always there just never seen,  

A ghost who kept the lights on,  

Who patched the cracks between the seams.  

From boyhood, forged not gently but by fire,  

He learned to patch holes before they opened,  

To take the fall before the roof did

To be blamed for storms he didn’t start,  

Yet still build arks just in case.  

Taught to stand where others lean,  

To be the "why" no one asks about,  

To smile like a full moon in a blackout  

Faint, but enough.  

Always enough.  

The man who wasn’t there

Never knocked before entering life’s storm  

Just walked straight in,  

No umbrella, no complaint,  

Just his hands… and your name in his chest.  

He doesn’t always say much.  

But oh, when he speaks  

It sticks.  

"Don’t waste time on things that don’t feed your future."

"Walk like someone who knows where he’s going."

"Save something. Even if it’s just your dignity."  

"Think of the consequences of each action" 

At the time, maybe we rolled our eyes.  

Ignored him.  

But later

We heard those same words  

In the silence before a big decision.  

And they saved us.  

His hands are rough, his back is bent,  

A lifetime’s toil, his love unspent.  

He speaks in deeds, not tender words,  

A voice too often left unheard.  

The man who wasn’t there

Was always somewhere 

Behind the wheel, behind the bills, behind the ache  

Of almosts and maybes  

And "You never really talked to us." 

Yet through that silence

He sings.  

In roof tiles that don’t leak,  

In fees paid just in time,  

In that one pair of shoes  

You always had,  

Even when he didn’t.  

Some stand like stone, cold and apart,  

A hollow beat, a vacant heart

No warmth to give, no strength to spare,  

A father’s name they do not wear. 

They are called father but do not fathers. 

They sit like furniture seen but not felt.  

Like coat racks holding burdens  

They never bother to lift.  

But oh, the ones who hold the line,  

Who bleed in silence, starve, yet shine  

They build the world we call our own,  

A fortress made of flesh and bone.  

The man who wasn’t there

Won’t always ask for thanks.  

But if you looked close enough,  

You’d see it in his eyes 

That soft, tired wish  

To just be seen.  

To be understood.  

To hear, "You helped me. Even when I didn’t say it."

So say it.  

Now.  

Not when the room is silent.  

Because fathers don’t always say "I love you."

Sometimes they say,  

"Eat something."  

"Call me when you get there." 

"Be careful who you trust."

"Avoid bad company."

And those words?  

They’re love,  

Disguised in survival.  

Spoken by the man who wasn’t there—  

The one who carried the world quietly,  

So you could run free.  

Not every man who fathers is a father.  

But the ones who are?  

They are myth.  

They are mortar.  

They are everything in the house  

That doesn’t fall.  

No candles, no applause

Just an old man humming at the sink,  

Counting coins, whispering prayers,  

And praying you never notice  

How much it cost  

To make your world feel safe.  

The man who wasn’t there 

Was always there.  

Not perfect.  

But present.  

And priceless. 

SEYE OYEWOLE

June 24, 2025