Whoever You Turn Out to Be

I been trying to become somebody worth coming home to, the kind of man who’d take your wet coat, whoever you turn out to be, and never ask you to prove it was raining.

Give me a silence and I go looking for something to fix. One loose hinge and I’d be checking every door in the house while your one honest sentence waited at the table.

I watched my father’s hands grip everything like it was borrowed, like the lease was already up.

So I been oiling hinges on doors nobody uses yet, leaving the scaffolding up around myself, planks I climb high enough to see the drop.

Let my kids see me stay at the dinner table, hands empty, feet already pointed at the door, and hear me say, “I was wrong,” then watch me come down to breakfast anyway.

Some night you’ll lie beside me, tell me what happened without searching my face for doubt, and I’ll say, “I’m scared,” with my jaw unclenched.

Nobody gets up to check the deadbolt.