I’m not a man like I should be.
I can’t change a tire,
Didn’t spend Saturdays doing yard work with my dad.
I’ve never worn a suit,
Or even a tie.
I’ve never heard my voice crack and squeak in middle school.
I’m fragile. I’m tired. Hurt.
But I’m also gentle, and warm.
I’m a man in the way that my father held me as a child.
I’m a man in the way my uncle cried for his father.
In the way that the warm summer sun wraps you in its warmth after a hard night.
So maybe I’m not a man like I should be,
Not rugged, not sharp.
But I’m a man nonetheless.