The speaker is talking about a quiet kind of hurt: loving people who don't seem to notice. The poem opens with a small admission, almost a correction ("Or not that much"), as if the speaker is hesitant even to complain. Then comes the repeated "I'd," a list of things they would do for these people. Some are tender and specific, like filling a basket with paper cranes or painting a beautiful version of life. Others are big and familiar, like going "to hell and back." Mixing the two makes the devotion feel both gentle and total.
The ending is what matters most. The speaker says they don't need the care returned, only acknowledged and appreciated. That's a modest request, but it carries real longing. The mood is soft, vulnerable and a little lonely. Nothing is shouted. The short lines and plain wording make it feel like a confession, the sort of thing a person admits only when they're tired of staying silent.