In the Spirit of National Poetry Month
30th Anniversary

(a note to my father)

Daddy,

I remember autumn—
the backyard

leaves becoming my friends,
each one a secret folded in color.

You’d laugh,
watching me talk to the trees.

I was five.
Whispering to maple and ash
like they were elders—
and I, their chosen child.

I believed the whole world was listening
because you did.

Now,
I stand at the edge—
not of a sidewalk,
but something deeper.

The bridge moans beneath me,
its bones aching like mine.

Below,
the river waits.

Not cruel.
Just certain.

A silence that hums
like a question
with no answer.

I think of mornings with you.

4 a.m.
My footsteps—small and certain—on linoleum.
Climbing a stool too high for my reach.

You’d hand me your coffee.
We exchanged smiles

And never spoke.

We didn’t have to.

I didn’t need the caffeine.
I needed your nearness.

To stir sweetness into your day
the way you stirred steadiness into mine.

And then spring—
the orchard.

I’d shake the branches
until apples and pears gave in.

My braids tangled in sunlight.
My hands reverent.
Gathering what had fallen,
what others might forget.

I believed nothing deserved to rot.
Not even the softest,
most dented thing.

Even now—
I hum as I pick,
filling a basket
with everything the world discards.

I believed in second chances
before I knew their name.
I still do.

Some days,
my bruises rise like fruit.

Some days,
I am the one the world dropped.

But then I remember—
you saw light in me
before I knew the word.

You taught me
love is a ritual:
a note in a lunchbox,
a song hummed while dishes soak,
a hand on a fevered forehead
that says without saying—

I’m here.

You’re not alone.

I hold onto that, even now.
Your light.
Still here,
in the quietest parts of me.

Even when I forget who I am,
you remind me where I come from:

magic

sunbeams,
orchards,
coffee spoons,
and the miracle
of being seen.

Thank you,
Daddy,
for staying.

Copyright © 2026. Rochelle Soetan, from the forthcoming collection PULSE (2026)