We don’t wave flags—we raise ‘em. Welded to the top rail of a reach lift, flapping over a jobsite that’s loud, hot, and crawling with the folks who still know how to make something. This ain’t some polished version of patriotism. It’s steel-toed, tool-belted, rebar-strewn reality.
You want to talk about building America? It’s framed in sweat and sheathed in OSB. It's standing in mud before daylight, pushing through delays, busted knuckles, and missing materials—just to keep the line moving. The flag doesn’t hang in the background out here. It’s right up front, swinging in the wind off the forks of a lull.
You don’t wear this shirt for likes. You wear it ‘cause you’ve earned it.
