Louisville Pride

was always

the day before

Father’s Day.

It made for

a late night,

driving over an hour home,

scouring Walmart

for cards and gifts,

taking off the nail polish

so I could wake up early

and go to church

and pretend to be

the good straight cis child.

It was jarring,

having to run

back into the closet

so quickly,

the two different sides

of my world

so close together

and so far apart.

And what would

it have been like

if they

could have melded together,

if I could have asked

for the type

of fatherly advice

I desperately wanted?

“Dad, what do I do

with the rage I feel

for those who

stand outside the gate

preaching hatred?”

“Dad, how do I

talk to a cute boy?”

“Dad, how do I

feel good about myself

when no one

at the gay bar

wants to talk to me?”

Louisville Pride

was always

the Saturday

before Father’s Day.

And Sunday

I always felt

fatherless.