By definition, it’s just “the state or time of being a father.”
But for me, it’s something deeper—one of the greatest joys a man can ever have.
Like every Father’s Day, I find myself overwhelmed and overjoyed by the two amazing humans I get the honor of calling sons. Today was no exception. The gifts are different now—intangible, not things (though I did get a new pair of AirPods Pro). The real gift was time: intelligent conversation, laughing together, reminiscing about their childhood, and running an 8K together for the 26th Annual Race Against Hate.
But today, I also want to talk about my father.
I looked back at what I wrote on Mother’s Day and realized I always have more words for mom. Maybe that’s normal. Masculinity often tramples what we feel. I think my father was 88 the first time I told him I loved him—and he said it back. Might’ve been the dementia. Might’ve been real. Maybe both.
My definition of fatherhood, when I think about my dad, is different.
Fatherhood is the act of providing.
Work.
My father worked so my mother could stay home with us during our formative years.
He worked so we never knew hunger.
He worked so the lights stayed on.
He worked because that’s what a man was supposed to do.
Manhood.
He grew up in a hard world, so he never showed softness. He never went to prison or got into any trouble, but he carried the quiet weight of survival. It reminds me of that line from NWA’s Black Steel—
“…on a tier where no tears should ever fall.”
That’s the tier he lived on.
He loved us the only way he knew how—through work.
Joy, when it showed up, came through family. Not loud, not expressive. Not the kind of joy that doubles you over in laughter like Uncle Bill and Aunt Queen. But you could see it in the old black-and-white photos—hints of freedom, of Black joy, captured for generations.
Almost nine years ago, my father passed.
He had just turned 90 and fractured his hip in a fall.
Until then, he was one of the healthiest, strongest men I knew. That “old man” strength.
Dementia had already robbed him of most of the present, but I believe if it weren’t for that fall, he’d still be here—getting ready to turn 99. His body just couldn’t recover. The trauma was too much.
I remember sitting in his hospice room, listening to his shallow breaths, not knowing if the next one would be his last. I knew he wasn’t walking out of there. That kind of knowing sits heavy in your bones.
And then something happened.
Something I’ve never written down until now.
Very few people have ever heard this.
The day my father made his transition, I was alone in the room, deep in thought.
The 4th or 5th episode of a Law & Order marathon was playing on the TV nobody was watching.
And then the room began to fill.
The ancestors came.
I could see them as clearly as the pages in my journal.
Zeb, Dad’s cousin and my godfather, walked in first. Then came Johnnie L., Bill, and Monk. One by one, they gathered around the bed. More came—faces I couldn’t name but felt in my spirit. I knew they were family. I knew them.
They spoke words my earthly ears couldn’t hear—but my spirit understood.
They told him it was time.
They told him his work was done.
They told him we would be okay.
And that Mom and Gail were waiting.
I realized for the first time they were all men, all fathers.
