Missing the Mark

Sitting on Gram's old floor,
The light brown seas of carpet
Where I ventured far and wide;
It is someone's birthday.
Your shoes, worn out, as they always are,
For your love is of something far greater,
Something worth more than all the shoes...
All the choices...
All the money in the world.
And that something is a someone.
It is a "me,"
Your me,
Our me.
The one you lovingly reach out to catch,
When I parade forward as a bear,
Roaring in my own squeaky little voice,
With probably but a year's practice.
And on your face is that love,
The one I for so long pretended
Did not exist, or was hidden by difference;
The love that can only be from one pair of eyes.
You are my father, my dad,
And I am far simpler than I have thought.