My father got a small drone as a gift, and then named it. I
have mixed feelings about his naming the drone. I’m also
jealous of the attention it’s getting. In the background of a
phone call I can hear it getting breastfed.
My partner is made uneasy by positive depictions of
fatherhood. This past week a neural network was fed the raw
data of over two thousand fatherhoods and proceeded to
systematically disappoint everybody. I’m going to be a great
dad because I’m not going to be one.
God the father is the version of God who is the most hard
ass. God was also his own dad. I go out into the desert for
forty days and nights and wait to hear back. The question
shouldn’t be why suffering exists but why we don’t all just
grow out of it.
Abuse is cyclical. It moves down vertically between
generations. It collects like a cloud of pubic hair to follow me
around and make fun of my outfits. Abuse goes sideways,
too, like compliments. I call out my abuser, and to my
abuser, but we’re taking escalators in opposite directions. To
me, it follows the geometry of a stop sign.
I refuse to write a poem that would make my dad unhappy,
unlike my earlier, finger-pointing poems. My dad deserves
better. He deserves a winding prose piece loosely organized
around a recent drone acquisition. He deserves one
thousand years of sunlight and unlimited therapy. We both
deserve love. We both deserve lovely cashmere sweaters.
We deserve to wear the sweaters together. We deserve to
wear them forever.
Peter Gendron (they/them) is a queer, nonbinary Montreal-based artist and writer, white settler, sometimes-radio personality, and total softie. Their work has appeared in over two friends’ zines. That one time you only saw one set of footprints in the sand it was because they were carrying you.