My dad has never told me he loves me
My dad has never told me he loves me.
He isn’t the type to hug.
He isn’t the type to kiss goodnight.
He isn’t the type to show affection.
But he tells me loves me when he gives me $50 for groceries when he knows I spent my last $20 on a hungover quarter pounder meal.
He tells me loves me when he drives me to work at 7:45am when he has to be somewhere at 7:50am.
He tells me loves me when he drives me to my psychologist appointment when he thinks I can get the same therapy from him for free.
He tells me loves me when he lets five episodes of Seinfeld play though when he’s itching to watch whatever Russian TV drama he’s into at the moment.
He tells me he loves me when he scolds me for drinking directly from the milk carton, even though he does the exact same.
He tells me he loves me when he offers the last serving of dinner.
He tells me he loves me when he allows me to smoke weed in his backyard.
He tells me he loves me when he tries to set me up with the 37-year-old Jewish professional who owns his own home.
He tells me he loves me when he reluctantly hands his card over so we can order pizza when mum and I are too lazy to cook.
Actions speak louder than words, and I hope one day I can do half the things for him that he has done for me. Happy Birthday, Papa.