blood doesn't matter

 Empty space, a missing hand,

a shadow where a father should have been.

Didn't matter, not really,

though sometimes the little boy inside cried out.

Then, different hands reached out,

stronger, kinder, calloused from work

and warm with laughter.

Men who chose me,

wanted me.

They filled the empty space,

built a fortress around the little boy,

showed him how to be brave,

how to mend what was broken.

The blood means nothing,

the absence fades,

replaced by the constant, steady light

of found fathers,

saviors in denim and work boots.

They are my real.

They are my everything.