Keagan Wheat

I Don't Know Why I Love Him

His, my mom corrects my father.
Keagan's, he continues. My mom misses
this purposeful difference. He uses
Keagan like a rebellious
nickname I'll grow out of. She
confirms my appointment,
a yearly gift that hopes
to keep the blue from my lips.

My father refuses my pronouns
as he remembers the kid he held
as staples were removed from the chest.
He tries so hard to connect that baby,
with dark, jagged stitches half
the length of her body, to Keagan. He
supports what he knows
is his child, and ignores what confuses
his image of it.

Every meaningful
debate about politics
pushes me away from him,
like the people who lose their appetite
when they sit near us at a restaurant.
They stare, as I question my father's
support of a ballot including
electrocuting the gay away,
to try to remind us
of the lack of privacy,
but I am no longer
phased by strangers
looking at me
like a glitch.
I am always
being reminded
of my indecency.

We both sit through a drive to Texas Children's
that gets quieter each year,
the only lasting tradition of my childhood.

Each appointment, we pass this wooden sculpture
of a giraffe that stalks through memories. We forget
the right floor, never checking the map. He uses hand
sanitizer stations in every hallway. I try to recall
the medication I take twice daily, and his nerves talk over me.
I regret seeing little kids playing in the waiting room, knowing
their first memory might be just like mine,
working to disappear into a corner
as a nurse walks over to take labs.

We leave after hours of waiting and testing,
and celebrate cyanotic 89% oxygen saturation
with the greasy, red excitement of Chick-fil-a.