Officer Henry Franklin starts every morning the same way — by glancing at a piece of paper taped near his desk at the Sikeston Department of Public Safety. It’s small, creased from being handled too often, but to him, it’s priceless.
On it is a blue handprint — tiny, made by a child — with a message written in crayon:
“Thank you for keeping me safe.”
He found it one morning after speaking to a group of second graders about safety. A shy little boy had slipped it into his hand before walking away. Henry keeps it pinned above his radio, right where he can see it every day.
“It reminds me why I do this,” he says quietly.
Henry’s known throughout Sikeston not just as a police officer, but as “Officer Henry” — the man with the big smile, the calm voice, and the pockets full of stickers. He’s the one who waves at school buses, who bends down to eye level when a child’s crying, who remembers names months after meeting them once.
He’s the first to volunteer at school events — book fairs, fire drills, field days. Parents notice the way he listens. Kids notice the way he laughs. When the local elementary school needed help crossing students safely during bad weather, Henry showed up early — on his day off.
One afternoon, a teacher overheard a little boy say, “Officer Henry is my hero.”
When someone told him about it later, he smiled and said, “He’s mine too, buddy.”
In a world where headlines often focus on division, Henry stands for something quieter — a reminder that kindness is also a kind of protection. His badge doesn’t just represent authority; it represents trust, especially from those too young to understand laws but old enough to feel fear.
He visits schools regularly, handing out badges, telling jokes, and teaching lessons about courage and respect. He knows each child’s name by heart. When one girl’s father was deployed overseas, Henry brought her a small teddy bear in uniform — “so you’ll have someone watching over you while Dad’s away.”
The parents notice too. They tell stories about how their kids sleep better after meeting him. How they draw pictures of him at home. How, for many children who grow up anxious or unsure, Officer Henry becomes a symbol of safety.
And that’s what he loves most — not the title, not the uniform, but the trust.
“People think being a cop is about enforcing rules,” he says. “But for me, it’s about protecting hearts — especially the small ones.”
Every week, he adds another child’s drawing to the wall beside his desk. Crayon suns, stick figures, blue handprints — a mosaic of gratitude. He never throws any away. “Each one’s a reminder,” he says, “that what we do matters.”
Real heroes don’t always wear capes. Sometimes they wear badges, carry stickers, and remember your kid’s favorite color. Officer Henry Franklin may not see himself as a hero — but to the children of Sikeston, he already is one.