You were the harbor where the storm still managed to leak,
The heavy arms that held me safe but left me weak.
A boy from concrete streets, orphaned by bottles and blows,
Saved by a city that left you longing for a home no one knows.

You chased a love that looked like a cage and called it peace,
Trading your children’s safety for a fragile quiet lease.
You weighed your life and chose her shadow over blood you bled,
Leaving your children stranded with the heavy things unsaid.

We crowded in your “fun car” just to catch your fading spark,
Desperate to breathe your warmth before she pulled us to the dark.
You loved the board games, the pieces, the laughter, and the play,
But packed them all away the second she told you to obey.

She locked our Spanish speech behind her bitter, fearful pride,
And let our Puerto Rican roots be scrubbed and cast aside.
You stood there vacant, an accomplice to her cruel command,
Erasing our own heritage because she could not understand.

“Here’s the phone,” you’d dare in a trap designed to make me bow,
“Go ahead and call, they won’t do a single thing for you now.”
Oh, how I wish I’d dialed just to put your mercy to the test,
To say I tried to save us from the secrets in your nest.

Now a self-made silence grows from the toxic ban you keep,
While society demands a love that makes my spirit weep.
They whisper that a daughter owes her blood an endless grace,
But cold detachment is the path I take to clear my space.

I look at the ghost of the father you chose to become—
A man so terrified of being left alone and numb,
You let the fire consume your children in the night,
Just to stay warm beside her and avoid a lonely fight.

Yet I am building true warmth far away from where you fell,
Refusing to be haunted by the echoes of your hell.
I trust the soft, reassuring hands that hold my life today,
And break the chain of doubt before it takes my soul away.