Shoot it if it rhymes

Hero

Father,
my knuckles ache as I write this.
Father,
my knees buckle as I climb.
my fingers shake
my feet hurt
my voice trails, off and on.

Father,
I cannot carry a child.
my forearm is a mite smaller
than you saw it last.
my thighs, once hard as my will,
can’t carry my weight, sometimes.

The end seems just a little larger
just a little closer
sometimes.

Would this have killed you, father,
had you been alive?

Wherever you are, father,
please, please touch me where it hurts.