Fix This, Papa—My Heart Hurts

Papa, Fix This—My Heart Hurts

I come to you, a trembling child of dusk,
with a wound that beats louder than any drum.

Your hands—once the scaffolding of my world—
now seem too far, too faded, like ghosts in the attic.

The ache sits beneath my ribs, a storm‑tossed tide,
each breath a gasp for the tide‑line of your voice.

“Fix this,” I whisper, the words wobbling on a rope,
the rope that once carried me from the highest swing
to the safety of your steady palm.

I remember the iron scent of gasoline
when you taught me how to mend a broken bike,
how you’d twist a wrench, and the metal sang—
a hymn of repair, of things set right again.

Now the metal is my heart, rusted by midnight doubts,
its gears grinding in a rhythm that knows no rest.
I lay it before you, raw and trembling,
awaiting the simple magic of your touch.

You, Papa, are the echo of every lullaby,
the steady hum of a house at night,
the compass that points home when I’m lost
in the labyrinth of my own restless thoughts.

If I could, I’d stitch the torn seams of my chest
with the thread of your laugh, the fabric of your patience,
and sew the gaps where sorrow seeps through.

But I am small, and the wound is vast—
so I call, I plead, I beg: “Fix this, Papa.”

May your eyes find the crack, your hands find the knot,
your voice be the balm that steadies my pulse.
May the echo of your “It’ll be alright,”
float like a lantern over the dark water,

and carry me, one gentle breath at a time,
back to the shore where my heart can rest,
where love is the medicine, and you—
the healer whose name is whispered in every sigh.

In the quiet after the storm, I will hear—
the soft thrum of a heart that’s finally mended.