Nothing Rhymes With Orange

for my father, and all those who served
-Queen Sheba

He did not die in Vietnam—
though it followed him home
in the seams of his skin.
In the cough that wouldn’t leave.
In the silence
he passed down
like a flag
folded too tightly.

He survived
long enough
to watch me grow,
call me daughter,
teach me
not just how to ride a bike—
how to come back
for others
when the road breaks
beneath them.

He never talked
about the jungle,
I saw it in his eyes
when the fireworks cracked
too close to July.
When he flinched
at the word “orange.”
When he’d tighten his jaw
at the evening news
like he was still waiting
for orders
that would never come.

He wore fatherhood like fatigues—
every thread strong,
every button earned.
Adopted me
like I was his last mission,
his Detroit sanctuary.
Made a home
where the war could not follow,
where grief still unpacked
its bags in the hallway.

He loved my mother
with a discipline
the military couldn’t train—
loyal
as the dog tags in his drawer.

She never remarried.
Not because she couldn’t.
because some salutes
are permanent.

Loyalty and grief look a lot alike.
One waits by the door.
The other becomes it.

He left me at 57.
Him-too young for peace,
too old to still be a soldier.
Agent Orange
did not wear a uniform
when it took him—
just years and slow apologies
from a country
that salutes on Monday
and forgets by Friday.

I remember…
We remember.
We, the daughters
and sons of folded flags
over wooden boxes.
Of slow goodbyes.
Of soldiers who made it home
and never truly left
the battlefield.

Today,
I write my father’s name
in the breath between silence.
And I say it louder
for every name
that still echoes
in boots not worn.

To the only father—
I’ve ever known
whose blood
I do not carry
and all those who served:
Thank you.
We carry the memory.
We carry you.