(intro)
sparse keys, heartbeat tap — 85 on the clock,
a folded chair at dinner, empty plate, an empty talk.
i memorize the angle where his boots would’ve been,
counting echoes of a name that never learned to say "begin."
there’s an empty chair, thanksgiving light, potato and pie gone cold,
mama shrugs and says, "he'll call," but phones stay cold as old.
i got a program from the school recital, ribbon stuck to my chest,
he missed the whole two minutes — my solo, my test.
found a folded note in the top drawer—half a line, half-truth,
"can't do this now," it said, like time is immune to youth.
on the playground, other dads clap, their shadow long and wide,
mine's silhouette's a rumor, a ghost i can't abide.
but the boy learned to count his wins in alleyway echoes,
kicked cans, wrote rhymes on cardboard, turned sorrow into steps to go.
i used to wait for footsteps that never found the floor,
now i trace my own path through the crack in the door.
left behind, i rise alone.
left behind, i rise alone.
birthday candles twice blown out, one wish for a shadow to show,
teachers asked where his dad was — i learned to smile and let it go.
notes from field trips stacked like unanswered calls,
a folded paper crown from a boy who wore his letdowns like shawls.
i traded "why" for work — i sharpened, i rehearsed,
put my anger in the pocket, turned hurt into a verse.
two-syllable slant rhymes in the margins of my math,
counting more than sums—counting scars, counting craft.
i hustle after dusk, paint neon lines on tired floors,
selling beats in basements, collecting keys and open doors.
left behind, i rise alone.
left behind, i rise alone — but listen close, i own this tone.
then a letter slides under the door, ink shaking like a confession,
"i wasn't ready," it reads, "for your season or progression."
for a second my chest cracks — vulnerability or bait?
i hold his words like glass, decide what glass should break.
i draft a reply in rhyme — not to beg, but to explain,
"i learned to feed myself fire, i learned to stand in rain."
i fold that letter twice, tuck it in a beat-up shoe,
not to hide the absence, but to prove what i can do.
this is the turning: i stop asking for his salute,
i find my own reflection in the crowd, i claim my root.
left behind, i build my throne!
left behind, i build my throne!
stage lights flick — it's the night the whole block knows my name,
i spit the lines of a kid who learned to reframe the blame.
a fatherless kid with a father's cadence in his chest,
i teach a younger kid to tie his shoes, show him how to vest.
i send photos of my smiles to the boy who used to be me,
not for him to fix me, but for him to finally see.
i sign autographs on notebooks, leave one on the bench at the park,
"for whoever sits here next, find light inside the dark."
no more waiting rooms, no more watching for a hand that slides,
i build a home from my own grit, invite the world inside.
(final)
