First published on National Coming Out Day on Vocal Media. October 11, 2022.
Don't come out for me.
Come out for you.
No need for fanfare or announcements.
No pressure to say it in the right tone
or write it in the right font.
You don't need to tell anyone really.
But trust yourself
to know yourself
and love yourself.
Even that part.
And know I love that part of you, too.
First published by Drunk Monkeys, September 19, 2022.
Pig tailed and sitting tall
in a white t-shirt
trimmed in lace, you balance
on the white pleather seat
of a pink bike in the Tacoma Walmart.
"Smile," I say, and snap a picture.
You look like a candy cane.
Your brother and I had picked you
up and surprised you with donuts.
We have 48 hours together.
A weekend.
Shared custody makes every choice
feel so heavy.
I want to fill each moment with a memory,
overflowing like the raspberry jelly
your donut can’t contain,
sweet and sticky memories of our time together.
We drive home,
to the house where we once lived together.
Your room has not changed.
This visit will be defined by pink
handlebar streamers,
a glittery bike
helmet, and a white plastic basket made
to look like wicker.
I run behind you, hand under
your seat, holding the bike
steady as you scream and giggle,
as we scream and giggle,
your legs pedaling furiously
and my feet rushing to keep up.
As the day continues,
and you work to coordinate
all of the movements there are
some falls,
but scraped knees don't deter you,
and you let me wipe your tears
as you climb back on
and try again.
Soon enough you've found it
your own balance
your own freedom
and the strength of
your own legs to carry you away.
"I'm doing it!"
you cry and I feel my hand
begin to let go, my grip
loosening from the seat
as you begin to ride
on your own.
"Did you see?"
you ask,
turning the bike back
towards me and stopping by my side.
"I did!"
I say.
"You're amazing!"
The following day,
you’ve got it fully figured out,
and as the weekend comes to an end,
you park your bike
and we say goodbye.
“What does a father do with his hands
when they are no longer needed to hold
you up or keep you
from falling?” I think.
Relegated to high fives
or opening pickle jars.
Maybe that's why dads take so many pictures,
something to do
with our hands
and to document your transformation
to independence.
No longer needed to hold
you up,
or to wipe your tears,
I raise my hand
to wave goodbye
and wipe my own.
First published by Drunk Monkeys, July 18, 2022.
It’s too much I imagine
him saying with words
he does not yet have
too much to be held
too much.
Strange man I don’t know
Foster dad who are you
I don’t want to be here
It’s too much.
We try walking instead
a few steps
then he stops
plants himself on the ground
and waits.
He is done for
now it’s too much.
Do not hold my hand
do not lift me up
do not look at me.
It’s too much.
We wait.
He reaches his hand
the one he took back
from me
he reaches it out
to you to hold.
As he rises his eyes
focus on your smile
big brother you are
just enough.
With you he knows
he is safe
no fear he will rise
and walk
just enough.
With each step by
your side he dismantles
too much
learns just
enough
and eventually over time
more.
First published by The Dillydoun Review, TDR Daily, April 3. 2021.
“You’re a pretty big wheel, ain’t you?”
my grandfather asks.
Words tossed my way
from a green armchair
in the dark corner of the front room
of his Appalachian home.
It’s like an impromptu game of catch,
his words propelled with disdain
(bewilderment?)
at the soft boy standing in his home.
Maybe it’s my dad’s fault.
Surely it’s my dad’s fault.
Mom has told me it’s my dad’s fault.
Mom uses heavy, sticky words like grandpa does.
This was her dad.
I was nothing like the men my grandfather knew:
strong, dominant brutes with calloused hands
whose days were spent underground
in the dark coal mines of Kentucky,
where the beauty of my grandfather’s otherworldly ice blue eyes
went mercifully unnoticed.
The men he knew lived in perpetual darkness,
entering the mines in the morning before dawn
and exiting at dusk,
the blackness seeping into their lungs
and slowly, painfully robbing them of air.
These men didn’t waste their breath
on unnecessary words.
My dad, the man my mother chose,
relishes the light,
his sensitive hazel eyes perpetually watery from being outside.
His hands are soft,
in spite of years of janitorial work before he joined the military,
reflections of his days working retail
and the brief time he taught high school history.
His words are too plentiful to be heavy or sharp,
like a constant barrage of ping pong balls that,
while irritating if beamed in your direction,
are never dense enough to leave a scar or sting when they hit you.
But the heavy sticky words my grandfather threw at me?
My mom taught me to catch them all
in my small, soft hands,
and not let them fall.
Hold some in my heart.
Hold some in my head.
Hold the weight of others like a hammer or pickaxe,
feel their burn like flares from a stick of dynamite
until my hands, too, became calloused.
I stare at him awkwardly, waiting for direction.
My mother is nowhere to be found
but also deeply present.
I respond to him like my father would.
“I guess I am, Grandpa. I guess I am a pretty big wheel.”
He glares at me,
those blue eyes glowing in the dark corner of the room.
He raises his strong, thick hand
like he’s going to strike me.
Watches me to see if I flinch.
Waits for me to retreat.
Waits for me to fall.
He reaches out, squeezes my shoulder hard,
and expels a deep disappointed sigh
(my mother learned that from him, as well)
as I turn and walk away.
First published by Nine Cloud Journal, Volume One, August 2020.
I enter your fifth grade classroom
It’s writing festival
And you’ve written an “I am” poem.
“I am from never give up even if you can’t take it.”
Your words on the paper.
“And live, love, stay alive and strong.”
Stay alive and strong.
Other parents who know some of your story
look at your poem,
Uncomfortable with your confidence.
How not broken you are.
But when it’s just you and me,
Driving in the car
Or walking together on our path through the woods,
You give me a glimpse at what goes on in your head.
How alone you feel sometimes
How scared you have been
And how that fear pops up from time to time.
Not knowing who to trust
Not learning how to love
Not feeling safe.
How the years leading up to your arrival to us were
complicated.
And how the joyful reunion with your brother at our house
And the beginning of together forever
Meant both loss and gain.
Adoption is always loss and gain.
It’s okay to still love your first dad, I say.
Even if he did the best he could and it wasn’t enough.
We can hold the complexity together.
It’s okay to be proud of who you are, I say.
Even the parts you don’t want to share.
You don’t have to tell me everything.
Or anything.
We can sit in the silence together.
It’s okay to feel insecure, I say.
Even if your body tells you you’re safe
and it’s been that way for a while.
Take as long as you need.
We can walk through that together.
And as we hold, and sit, and walk together,
I want you to know that you’re allowed to feel strong,
and you deserve to feel loved.
You are so loved.
“I am from never give up even if you can’t take it.”
Your words on the paper.
"And live, love, stay alive and strong.”
First published in Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, The Word Project. Sept 2019.
When I heard
that his mom was a faith-based fitness instructor
and his dad was a corrections officer
I thought twice about taking you to meet your brother.
And when I remembered that your relatives
weren’t able to care for you
and I recalled the conversations with them
that brought you to us
I dreaded packing the car and heading East.
But when I saw your eyes
staring back at me
when we met your brother
and I watched your faces
melt into smiles
as you danced and played
and laughed and yelled
I knew this was the right place to be.
And when I watched
the two of you
run up to your little sister on the side of a hill
and she looked just like you
and just like him
and all of a sudden you were building roots
and healing broken connections
and we were all learning who you are
I was embarrassed that I had been afraid to bring you here.
So when I listened to your laughter
on the long ride home
as you talked about your family,
and I began to understand
how you put it all together,
I started to cry.
“I feel like I have a new heart,” you said,
and drifted off to sleep.
Copyright © 2023 F Cade Swanson - All Rights Reserved.
Powered by GoDaddy Website Builder