The Note I Never Wrote

[An Unsent Letter to my Dad]

I should have written this…

when your cough still echoed

between the bookcases you built,

when your coffee smelled stronger

than your grudges,

when your mind was a library

nobody dared to doubt.

You taught me words the way

some fathers pass down land

syllables, syntax, wit - dry as your single malt,

sarcasm sharp enough to slice pride clean.

Your corrections stung, but I wore them

like medals pinned under my tongue.

You left me more than memories

shelves stacked too  deep

with words that outlived you,

first editions with brittle pages

that remember your thumbprint,

your notes scribbled in the margins

where I still hear your voice.

But I never wrote you back,

not when Parkinson’s came knocking,

made your hands betray you,

and I fed you your coffee,

one slow spoonful at a time

the same coffee you once sipped

like it was your second pulse.

Then came the forgetting

mind unspooling thread by thread,

dementia stealing your shelves

one book at a time

until even Ghalib slipped through,

Keats fell quiet and the Bhagavad Gita

sat patient on your lap, unopened.

Each neuron a small goodbye.

Each silence a page you forgot to turn.

I should have written this sooner

before your last word left you,

before your eyes stopped searching my face…

for the boy you built from commas and questions.

But I didn’t. I thought there’d be time.

So here it is.

The note I never wrote.

No clever ending, no perfect couplet

just me, sipping your coffee alone,

cracking open your books like doors,

hoping you’re somewhere

where every word you ever loved

waits to greet you…

clear, steady and unforgotten.