Listen to Dāshaun Washington read this poem.
My father says he is harder on me
because he is raising me to be a man.
He is raising my sister, he says,
to marry a man. He asks me if I would like to
marry a man. He tells me to
let him know so he can treat me
accordingly. I tell him
I don’t want to marry a man. In my head,
I’m already caressing my future
husband’s hand and asking
to be forgiven for this lie.
I say, I’m sorry—no one ever groomed me
to be a bride. I hesitate to hold my love
and apologize for this hesitation.
I tell him I once thought
hugs were only given to the necks
of disappointing sons. I tell him
I hate my softness, that I’ve learned
to hate myself the same ways
my father does.
My father taught me how
to make stone from flesh,
how to squeeze a tender thing
’til it’s tough enough to hurt.
I tell my love, when he touches me,
I feel like a boy again—
my father kneading my tender
throat, wringing it raw and ragged—
feeling myself gasp at his breathtaking
handwork. These are not the memories
of a body prepared for such tenderness.
This is not the body of a man
whose father’s softness readied him
for his husband’s touch.