I’m not sure how to talk to my father anymore.
I know how to reach out to him, but I don’t think
I can make that effort after this election. I have to
think about what’s on his TV and the circles he
filled in on the ballot, and how all that makes me
want to do is take my mother’s surname for my own.

“I don’t want to talk right now, Dad.”

I try to think about the trip out West we took for my graduation,
the Tar Pits, the Grand Canyon. I think of how little he knows
me, how he chose the army over me, how he thinks of that trip
since we haven’t taken one since then. I think about how this
has made it easy for me to ignore him, how little I want
to talk to him, but how I know obligation will make me
punch those digits in on my phone despite my unease.

“I don’t want to talk right now, Dad.”

I don’t have to call him today. There will come
a time when I need to, and it likely will not be
something I need that day. It will likely be the day
a new law is passed and my siblings and I watch
as our lives become worse, punished for our
gender, skin, and the people we love.

“I don’t want to talk right now, Dad.”

Alex Carrigan (he/him) is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne (Alien Buddha Press, 2022). He has appeared in SoFloPoJo, Cotton Xenomorph, Bullshit Lit, HAD, fifth wheel press, and more. Visit carriganak.wordpress.com or follow him on Twitter @carriganak for more info.