Black father,
I saw you yesterday.

You were walking down the sidewalk, sun setting behind you, casting gold on your shoulders.
A tiny pink princess backpack dangled from one of them like a badge of honor.
Your daughter’s laughter—loud and unfiltered—filled the air as you made ridiculous sounds just to see her smile.
You didn’t care who watched.
You cared that she felt joy. That she felt safe. That she felt seen.

Black father,
I saw you a few weeks ago at the doctor’s office.
You sat in the waiting room, your newborn son curled against your chest—tiny and soft, so new to this world.
You spoke low and calm, explaining to him what the nurse would do, what the visit meant.
He won’t remember your words, but he’ll carry your comfort for the rest of his life.
You held him like he was made of stardust and prayer.
Because to you—he is.

Black father,
I saw you at the college library.
A textbook in one hand, a toddler’s fist gripping your finger in the other.
You were balancing equations and responsibilities, dreams and diapers.
No applause. No fanfare. Just quiet grind.
The kind that rewrites legacy.

Several years ago,
I saw you in a courtroom.
You weren’t there to fight for yourself—you were fighting for them.
Kids not born of your blood, but bound to your heart.
Because their mother couldn’t anymore.
And you—you—couldn’t stand the thought of them being split apart.
You stood in front of a system that barely sees you, and you dared to say:
“They are mine. I will not let them go.”

Black father,
I saw you on the side of the road.
Police lights flashing. Your back was straight, hands at ten and two.
You carefully annunciated each syllable as if your life depended on the clarity of your voice.
And maybe it did.
I pulled over too. Just to watch. Just to witness. Just to make sure.
When the officer let you go, we locked eyes. You nodded. You waved.
And I exhaled.

Black father,
Last week, I saw you lead prayer over your family before a road trip.
Your hands steady, your voice trembling with gratitude and protection.
Not just for safe travels—but for safe returns.
Because you know what this world can be. And you pray anyway.

Black father,
I saw you last summer,
In a patchy neighborhood field, running football drills with every kid who showed up—your kid or not.
You didn’t do it for praise.
You did it because you remember what it’s like to have nowhere to go after school.
Because you know what happens when the street becomes the mentor.
So you show up. Again. And again. And again.

Black father,
I see you fighting systems that were never designed for you to survive.
Let alone succeed.
But you rise anyway.
You rise early. You rise tired. You rise determined.
And in that rising, you teach your children that their name carries weight,
Even if the world refuses to say it right.

Black father,
Not long ago, I saw you in uniform.
Camouflage crisp, your new stripes sewn on with pride.
Serving a country that doesn’t always serve you back.
And when the uniform comes off, the battle doesn’t end.
It just shifts.
To job interviews.
To grocery stores.
To sidewalks.
To silence.

Black father,
I saw you today—when that security guard called you “boy.”
I held my breath.
But you didn’t flinch.
Your crown didn’t fall.
Your dignity stood tall.
Because you know your worth isn’t found in their approval.
It’s been forged by the tears of your ancestors.
Polished by their hopes and dreams.
You wear it like armor.

Black father,
Your love is quiet, but it echoes.
Your strength is measured, but it builds nations.
You are the game changer for this generation.
The way maker for the next.

So if no one told you today—
I see you.
I honor you.
And I thank you.

Credit: Inspired by the powerful original words from “Stop Yelling Please” by Jacalyn Wetzel.