Dad

I purposefully didn't write you on Father's Day yesterday. I hope that's okay.
I didn't want to be cliche. I didn't want to be sad. I didn't want to face that I couldn't call you.
Your number is in my phone, and I shiver when I pass through the "T's."
I want to tell you about things, things that would make you proud, things that would make me feel your acceptance.
Every message you left me said to "keep doing the things that are working, and stop doing the things that aren't." I live by those words to this day.
I see your face in the man's at the bus stop.
I hear your voice in the professor down the hall.
I see your hands in every hardworking man.
I hear your jokes in my sister and my mother, and recently, even in myself.
I think I am becoming someone you would like, not just love because I'm yours.
I'm sorry for ever being cruel to you, and I know you're sorry for ever being cruel to me.
You are my father, more-so now than you ever were before.
And I appreciate It, you, or my conscience for making that feeling possible.