My Father and I

I inherited my fathers voice

That raises over small talk, conquers barriers, 

Has loud ideas that shake the ground. 


Mine begin to blow trees, stir rocks.

Nice boys don’t like wind tussled hair and 

Nice girls don’t like breezes under their skirts

They tell me to speak softly. 


My father and I debate over science and math

In the kitchen. My mother rolls her eyes

At me.  


Yet, I am not quiet. 

My sentences carry the same weight as his and 

We stress the same syllables. 

So please, please stop telling me to speak softly. 


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