My father, who is hardly ever here,
Lines his walls with books
As though to prevent them from falling in.
The mismatched clothes he likes to wear,
They smell like thoughts
Of pine trees and topological functions.
My father, whenever he is here,
Lends me his helpless traits.
And I shelve them obediently, my walls mere imitations.
My father, when he goes anywhere,
Carries his roots with him
In the tilt of his head, in the clearing of his throat.
My father, who is never here,
Gifted me his hands -
But not what was in them.
My father: Absent but always present
My father, who is never here, gifted me his hands - but not what was in them.


WRITTEN BY:
Maham Khan Is an A levels from Roots College International, Islamabad and intends to start University in September. She enjoys reading, writing and listening to folk music to fill the time in between.
Maham Khan Is an A levels from Roots College International, Islamabad and intends to start University in September. She enjoys reading, writing and listening to folk music to fill the time in between.

This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, redistributed or derived from. Unless otherwise stated, all content is copyrighted © 2025 The Express Tribune.
COMMENTS
Comments are moderated and generally will be posted if they are on-topic and not abusive.
For more information, please see our Comments FAQ