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. 

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