The man I love has caloused hands
from working so hard.
His shoes are filthy
because he’s always on his feet.
His smells sour . . .
the factory has no fans.
He doesn’t buy me roses
and drives a rusty car,
but he got that stranger something to eat.
I couldn’t go to boarding school,
but he pushed me on the swing
and told me stories when I could not sleep.
I want to be just like my Daddy.
By Martha L Shaw – © 5-19-2015