Birthday poems for Dad — short verses for the card, funny rhymes and longer ones to read out

You’re not one for fuss and you’re not one for show,
you mend what wants mending and let the rest go.
So put down the toolbox, there’s nothing to do —
many happy returns, Dad. The day is for you.

A card and a candle, a cup of strong tea,
the paper unopened, the morning kept free.
No jobs and no callers, no fuss and no phone —
a birthday, for once, that is properly your own.

Here’s to the man who could never sit still,
up before six and away up the hill.
Sit down for an hour, let the kettle go cold —
the jobs will keep waiting. That’s what they’ve been told.

The tools in your shed are laid out by size,
the shirts in your wardrobe are all navy blue.
I turned out the same — and it’s no great surprise,
since most of what’s steady in me came from you.

You taught me to check that the tyres were sound,
to pay what I owe and to turn up on time.
You never made speeches, you just came around —
and that’s why this birthday gets four lines of rhyme.

Happy birthday, Dad. Here’s a wish, kept small:
a shed that stays dry and a car that won’t stall,
a fortnight of sun on the step by the door,
and a year that asks less of you now than before.

You’ll say that we shouldn’t, you’ll say it’s too much,
you’ll stand the card up and get on with the day.
But cards stay on mantelpieces long after they’re read,
so read it again when we’ve all gone away.

Many happy returns of the quietest kind:
the kettle, the paper, the chair, and no grind.
The ladder stays folded, the lawn can wait too —
for one day the household runs round after you.

We asked what you wanted. You said, ‘Honestly, none.’
We asked you again. You said, ‘Really, don’t fuss.’
So the present this year is a card and a call
and the same box of fudge that gets eaten by us.

You’ve a drawer full of screws that will never be used,
a jar of odd washers, a tin of odd keys.
Not one of us knows what a single one opens —
and not one of us dares to throw out one of these.

The chair by the window is yours and stays yours.
The remote is a thing that we’re not meant to move.
The thermostat sits at a setting known only
to you and to God, and there’s nothing to prove.

One warm afternoon and the barbecue’s out,
and nobody else is allowed near the tongs.
You’ll stand in the smoke in a jumper till dark
and insist that the black bits are where it belongs.

You’ll not use the satnav — you know a way round.
The way round is longer and ends in a queue.
But you’ll get there on time with a shrug and a grin
and a line about traffic that no one thinks true.

Nobody’s tea is as strong as your tea.
The spoon has been known to stand up on its own.
So here’s to another good year of the stuff,
and a kettle that’s never once left you alone.

I’ve got your hands — that’s what my mother says —
your habit of mending what’s easier to bin.
For years I’d have argued I’m nothing like you;
now I check the tyre pressures before I get in.
So happy birthday from a man who’s your double
in temper, in patience, and half of the trouble.

You never once told me you’re proud. You just came:
to matches in rain when the score was a rout,
to the sixth-form thing where you sat at the back.
I knew what it meant. You’d not need to speak out.
Happy birthday. I’ve learnt how you say what you say —
you turn up on time, and you don’t go away.

The first car I bought was a wreck, and you knew it.
You said not a word, and you helped me undo it.
Two Sundays, cold hands and the radio on —
and a lesson I’ve carried long after it’s gone:
you don’t tell a man to his face he’s a fool.
You fetch out the spanners. You hand him the tool.

I’ve a boy of my own now. He’s four and he’s loud
and he trails me round the garden like I trailed you.
I catch myself using the words that you used,
in the very same voice, and I mean them. I do.
So happy birthday, Dad, from a man who has found
that you’d worked most of this out. And I’ve come around.

I gave you your share of grey hairs in my time:
the two o’clock phone call, the money, the car.
You paid it, you fetched me, you let the thing drop —
and you’ve never once mentioned how costly they are.
So happy birthday, Dad, from the lad who cost most.
He’s turned out all right, and he owes you the toast.

You checked every boyfriend the way you check cars:
a slow walk around and a look underneath.
I told you to stop it. I meant it back then.
These days I’d say, ‘Go on. Have a look underneath.’
You were right, as it happens, on two of the three.
Happy birthday, Dad, from a slow learner. Me.

I still ring you first when the boiler packs in,
though I’ve lived on my own for a decade or more.
You talk me through valves I will never recall,
and you’d get in the car if I asked. That’s for sure.
Many happy returns. I’ve my own roof and keys —
and I’m still on the phone to you, Dad, when I please.

I stood on your feet at a wedding, aged six,
and you walked us both round to a song I’ve forgot.
Whatever I’ve learnt about men since that day,
the standard was set on your shoes, like it or not.
Happy birthday to the first man who took my whole weight,
then carried a great deal more, and was never once late.

You’d not want a poem. You’d rather a pint
and a chat about nothing much: weather and cars.
You’ve got one regardless, and here is the point:
you’ll fold it and keep it. That’s just how you are.
So happy birthday from a daughter who’s read you for years
and who knows what you mean when you say, ‘Aye, well. Cheers.’

We’ve had our fair share of the door slammed at ten,
a fortnight of silence, a phone left to ring.
And each time you mended it quietly, the way
that you mend every other unmentioned thing.
Happy birthday, Dad. And I finally see
what the lift to the station was saying to me.

One card, and there isn’t a great deal of room,
so our names are all squashed in a line at the end.
Between us we’ve cost you a fortune in petrol,
a decade of sleep and a van you still lend.
Happy birthday from all of us. Sit down today.
We’ll do the washing-up — once — then we’ll go away.

We compared notes this year, and it turns out you’d said
to each of us, quietly, that we were the best.
That’s a fine bit of work for a man of few words,
and we’ve all agreed never to look into the rest.
Many happy returns from your children, grown out
and still ringing you first when there’s something in doubt.

Between us we’ve broken your ladder, your drill,
the gate and the wing mirror. Some of that’s still
on the list to be mended, and yet, on the whole,
you have never once shouted. Well — hardly at all.
Happy birthday from the four of us. Have the day free.
The ladder gets fixed, we all swear, before tea.

We’ve not always said it. We’re saying it here,
with all of our names written under one line.
You were steady through years that were anything but,
and not one of us doubted you’d turn up on time.
Many happy returns from your children — all grown, all in debt
to a man who has never once mentioned the debt.

That’s three years of birthdays I’ve watched from afar,
and I’ll not dress it up as a thing I don’t mind.
But the card will arrive and the call will get through,
and I’ll be on your doorstep by summer. You’ll find
that the son who’s gone quiet has not gone away.
Happy birthday. I’m coming. Just not for today.

I moved for the work, and you told me to go.
You carried the cases and didn’t say much.
You’ve never once made me feel guilty for it,
which is why I feel guilty. That’s your sort of touch.
Happy birthday. I’m miles off, and yet it appears
that I’m turning into you more with the years.

You still hold the phone like it’s going to bite,
and half of the call is your ceiling, your ear.
I’d not have it fixed — it’s the best of my week,
that face at an angle, that voice coming clear.
Many happy returns. Hold it higher, I beg.
I’d like a good look at you. Not at your leg.

The miles are the miles, and they don’t get much shorter,
the length of a flight is a thing I can’t move.
But nothing about them has cost me a father,
and nothing about them will change what I’ve proved:
I’m yours, and I’m proud of it, half a world out.
Happy birthday. That’s it. There was never a doubt.

I’ll keep it in verse, and I’ll keep it in hand —
you’ve no time for speeches, and less time for fuss.
But once in a while, when the table’s this full,
a few words are owed, and they’re coming from us.
You took all the shifts that were nobody’s choice.
You mended the things that most people replace.
You turned up for everything, early and quiet,
and stood at the back with a look on your face
that said you weren’t stopping, and yet you’d not go.
We saw it. We’ve seen it for most of our lives.
So fill up the glasses, the small ones as well,
and stand if you’re able. There’s one thing to say:
to the steadiest man that this family’s had —
happy birthday, and many happy returns of the day.

There’s a photograph somewhere of you in the yard,
with a bike upside down and a spanner in hand,
and a child in a jumper too big for the weather
who’s holding the torch, and who doesn’t quite understand.
That child is now taller than you by an inch
and has bikes of his own, and a yard, and a shed.
He still can’t do half of the things that you can,
and he’s given up hoping to catch up instead.
What he’s learnt is the harder and quieter part:
you turn up. You keep turning up. That’s all it takes.
You do the dull job that has waited a fortnight
and you don’t say a word about all that it makes.
So here’s to my father, the man with the spanner,
who taught me by doing, and not by advice.
Many happy returns from the boy with the torch,
who is still holding steady, and would do it twice.

Before the food goes and before the noise starts,
there’s a minute or two, and I’m using it here.
My father dislikes being talked about kindly,
so he’ll look at the tablecloth. Let him. Sit near.
He drove us to everything, all of those years:
to swimming at seven, to friends we have lost,
to a college three hours off and back the same night,
and he never once mentioned the diesel or cost.
He mended our bikes and he mended our nerve.
He told us we’d manage. It turned out we could.
And whatever we’ve each of us made of ourselves,
the ground underneath it was laid where he stood.
So raise up your glasses — he’ll want this kept short.
To Dad: many happy returns of the day.
You can look at the tablecloth all that you like.
We’ve said it out loud now. It’s said. It can stay.