You’re the only person in this world who let me grow my hair the way it was. Outlandish, all over the place and never straight – and you never complained about it.
You’re the only person who would sit down with me at 4 in the morning and watch football with me – even if it made you sleep.
You’re the only person who can push my limits and know when to stop – and make me laugh with a horrible dad joke I’ll never admit was well-thought and hilarious.
You’re the only person who knows how much Formula 1 means to me, that we have to sit down and watch it live and nothing can get into the way.
Do you still listen to the music that made you sing as much as it made me too?
I do, and I think of you.
Do you still listen to the radio, and think what a song I would like to listen?
Good if you do, because you’re still the first person I think of when I hear a new funky 1980s song.
Would it be strange, to tell you that I still find it uncomfortable that it’s Fathers’ Day and I’ve done nothing?
I’m not sure if I want to know your answer, but I find it strange.
I don’t think you care about what I think anymore, and that’s fine with me.
This post isn’t about me, it’s about you.
And the life you’ve provided before the other shoe dropped.
The good, privileged life.
The strong, stable home.
I never thanked you for the things that I never saw was for my good, and for the opportunities that widened my horizons.
I never thanked you for letting me make my own decisions, and for catching me when I fell when the fault laid entirely on me.
I never thanked you, for the good, but I blamed you for every bad thing that’s happened.
For what it’s worth,
I love you,
I miss you.
Blessed Fathers’ Day.