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Father's Day

“Happy father’s day!” It reads;
My hands shake as I happen to read it.
A memento I hold with my hands;
A memory that haunts.

“Will you forgive the bubbles that I made with my hands?” I ask you.
Displeased, you look at me;
"Pop it!
Strike it!
Hit it!" You insist.
I will not resist, father.
I will not resist; for I have been your bloodline’s disgrace.
Undress me, now;
Ignite my skinny body, and shout,
“‘Tis not the body of a man!”
It’s alright, father; I won’t resist.
Eat your scrumptious meal;
Consume it wholly for it is served!

Cramped, how do I breathe?
Defeated, I beg for your prize;
Strangled, I won’t despise!
Stone me to my gradual death as I speak my beliefs, while you are cross-legged staring at my wholeness,
And as you shame my todays as I flaunt it.

“I curse you, filthy; we’ve to be men!”
Talk me down; force me to worship your entirety!
“Ave, ave, thy infallible strength!”
Are my sins obliterated, now?
Grant me for I speak your taught prayers!

“Witness me as I carry my dominance—a figure that embraces my effeminacy.”
I speak while counting the butterflies I get to see in this dimension,
But you wake me up from this dream;
You don’t want this dream.

And now that I follow your desired paths,
“I made it! I made it!” I boast.

“Hey, Dad, look, I made it to the top!” Says a now full-grown man.

Wearing a perfectly-ironed corporate attire,
Clean-cut hair,
A neatly unshaven mustache and beard;
Do I look like a masculine, now, Dad?

“Hear, hear! I am proud of you! Let’s toast to your victory, son!” says my father, with his compadres, while hoisting their half-full Martini glasses.

I sit with them.
I laugh with them, while putting my hands at the back of my head.
Right ankle on the top of the left knee.
Right ankle on the top of the left knee.
This is how you should sit!
I reiterate to myself.

“So, how have you and Abi been doing lately?” My father’s delight to my wife.
From his eyes, I can tell he is proud.

“We’re doing good, Dad; she’s pregnant with our first child...”

“Congrats, son! You owe me a grandchild, and I pray to the Lord it would be a boy to continue our line!’”

“I pray for it, too, Dad. I pray for it, too..."

"God, where's Your mercy?" I whisper, holding back my tears.

Shaking, I smile at them—speaking machos—while masking my despair.
Says every word while disguising my voice.

And every night, I dream of that boy, whose life has always been considered as a “phase”; and I wonder how things could have gone if his Dad had only treated him the way he deserved.

But, his father's desires are the only things that matter.

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