[Intro] [fingerpicked acoustic guitar, steady kick drum] That's the only photo we had. Yeah. [Verse 1] [rap vocals, bass guitar enters] Dad died before my first memory formed, so I learned him through stories told half-drunk in kitchens. The cousins go quiet after saying his name and Mom's staring somewhere past the television. Wallace eyes faded, bent near the corners, Mom kept it hidden somewhere only she knew. Like taking a leap of faith, she finally showed me, holding it careful by the edges with two fingers, then sliding it away. For silence in the room like grief had rules neither of us understood, the picture he's shirtless, smiling sideways like somebody just made him laugh, one arm hanging loose, looking peaceful in a way our house never was. Trying to recognize myself inside his posture, wondering if my hands moved anything like his or if my nervous habits came from somewhere else. [Chorus] [melodic singing, harmonized vocals] One tiny picture, that's all we had left of him. Hidden somewhere Mom kept private, like memory could wear out from use. Everybody told me you got his smile, like that was supposed to answer everything. Some people grow up with fathers in the living room, I grew up with one photograph. [Verse 2] [rap vocals] Stepdad taxidermied the room, added it to the house, glass-stared eyes stacked beside rusted fishing lures. Place smelled like sawdust and stale beer and wet hunting jackets, dry heat of teachers called me gifted by third-grade winter. Meanwhile, I was counting footsteps, kept automatically, memorized many times yelling's direction suddenly. Stepdad drink Moss and watching late-night wrestling, sometimes predictability rewires children permanently. Bracing shoulders pins before doors even noticed, stretching tip money over hydro bills and groceries. Used to eye poverty was something she created personally, one night she caught me staring at that photo, asked, "What do you think when you look at him?" I said, "I think he looks peaceful." Neither of us spoke after that. Truth is I don't miss my father directly, I miss the version of a version of a life people imagine you have when they say you should have known him. [Chorus] [melodic singing, harmonized vocals] One tiny picture, that's all we had left of him. Hidden somewhere Mom kept private, like memory could wear out from use. Everybody told me you got his smile, like that was supposed to answer everything. Some people grow up with fathers in the living room, I grew up with one photograph. [Outro] [drums and bass drop out, acoustic guitar continues] Even now I still don't know where she kept it. [guitar fades out]
