David.

David — forty-one years and you still come in from the shed with sawdust in your hair and ask what's for dinner like you didn't just spend six hours fixing the neighbour's lawnmower for nothing. You are, and have always been, the quietest decent man I have ever known. The children learned every important thing they know from watching you work — not from anything you said. Neither did I. Happy Father's Day, my love. The lasagne is in. The shed door is fixed, finally, by you, last Tuesday. Come inside.

Dad — you handed me the keys to the shop last March and didn't say a word about it. Just nodded and went home for tea. I was twenty-eight before I realised every single useful thing in my life I learned in that garage between the ages of nine and seventeen. How to listen for the small click before the big problem. How to put the tools back where they belong, every time, without being asked. How to charge people fairly. How to fix what can be fixed and admit when it can't. You never gave me a lecture in my life. You just left the door open and let me watch. Best inheritance a man ever got. Love you, old man.

Pops — you taught me how to change a tyre on the M25 hard shoulder in the rain when I was seventeen, and to this day I've never paid a man to do it. You also taught me, by example, that the best apology is showing up the next day with the right tool and no comment. I've used that one on my husband for nine years now. He's figured it out. He doesn't mind. Love you, Dad. Save me a slice of cake.

Dad — you came to every cross-country meet I ran from age 11 to 18. Every one. In the rain. With the bad knee. You never once cheered, because you said that wasn't the point. You were just there at the finish, holding a thermos. I didn't understand why until I had Ade. Then I understood. I'm sorry it took me twenty years. Thank you for being there anyway. I'm at every one of his games now. Thermos and all.

Grandad you are the best at fixing stuff!! You fixed my bike AND my scooter AND the kitchen drawer that wouldn't close. Mum said you fix stuff faster than the internet can tell us how. I love you Grandad!!

Grandad, you let me hold the hammer. Daddy doesn't let me hold the hammer. You are my favourite. Happy Father's Day. I drew you a picture of the workshop. It is taped to the fridge at our house, please come see it.

Grandad — last summer you taught me how to sharpen a chisel, properly, the way you do it. Eight strokes on the coarse stone, eight on the fine. I've done it to all of mine since. Dad says they're sharper than his. I told my friend Liam at school you can build a whole shed in a weekend and he didn't believe me. So I sent him the picture from when we built the chicken coop. He believes me now.

Grandad — you sing when you're working in the shed. I can hear you from the kitchen. I like that song about the river. Mum says it's called Take Me Home Country Roads. Sing it on Sunday please.

David — thirty-one years on the floor at Caldwell & Sons, and I'm here to tell anyone who'll listen: you were the only foreman I ever worked under who came in early to make the coffee himself, every single day, and never once mentioned it. The new lads now, they don't know they're born. I tell them about you and they think I'm making it up. Happy Father's Day, brother. Your boys are lucky. So was I.

Dave — thirty years sharing a fence with you, and I've borrowed roughly every tool you own, twice. You've never said a word about it. You've also never failed to bring them back yourself when you noticed I'd forgotten, which is every time. You shovelled my drive the winter Linda was in hospital and you wouldn't take a cup of coffee for it. You just said, "Eddie. It's done. Stop." I've told that story at three funerals and two retirement dos. Happy Father's Day. The fence is sagging on my side. Don't you dare touch it. I'll get to it.

Uncle David — you walked me down the aisle when my dad couldn't make it from Lagos in time, and you didn't once ask if I was sure, or remind me to smile, or any of the things people thought they were supposed to say. You just held my arm the way you held my brother's the first time he learned to ride a bike — steady, quiet, and ready to let go the second I didn't need it any more. I am still grateful, sixteen years on. Happy Father's Day, Uncle. Sade and the kids send their love.

Davey — fifty-three years since you and I built that go-kart out of a busted lawnmower and your old man's wheelbarrow. It went about four feet before the wheel fell off. Worth every minute. I've known you since we were eight and I've never once seen you give up on a thing you said you'd finish. Not one. Forty-one years married, three good kids, a workshop your boy now runs — that's the same kid who couldn't finish a go-kart, finishing everything. Happy Father's Day, you stubborn old bastard. Pints on me when you're next up.