Emancipaternal

If I were to talk about a father
the arcs of his ears are enough,

yet, he would not talk,
just like the heavens
when you plead,

as he is better now:
he does not hide in his paternal loop,
nor would he ridicule my son I have been hiding.

He once knew that what was not written
was unprincipled;

now, I talk and he pertinaciously listens,
unbothered by my pretentious tone.

He speaks, but only at night—
with his melted heart.

I taught him to be more man:
now, he would cling to me as if I were 
a wife who cooks for her.

I used to watch him with Mom's self-made perspective; however, sometimes, you really have to switch taste—I still love horror, 

but not anymore from my father's.

After all, he still sees the child in me
and the afraid.

A father should be called pink
and he shall not flinch.

Freed from guns and loads,
and he shall not be defeated;

for he is still, and abandon is not his last name,
as I still reweave his first name in my poems.

He has been with me: 
inherited every fiber of his clothing—

not overly worn,
as it now fits me.