My grandpa said some harsh stuff,
I wondered if he’d had enough.
I tried not to cry,
Deep down, I hoped he knew why.
He said “Gender’s not even real”,
And anyone who thinks so should just deal.
I said, “They/them” folks want to be seen,
As people, not some in-between.
It didn’t seem silly or wrong to me,
In fact, I felt a kind of key.
A few years on, I learned to speak—
With sharper words, and less critique.
I fell and lost a ski,
The man helping called me a he.
I really loved it,
I didn’t know why but I did.
What should “being a woman” mean?
Does grandpa think I’m making a scene?
I never liked Disney princesses,
I hated wearing dresses.
I did like football,
Gender felt like a big brick wall.
My long hair, was to much to bear,
Cutting it off was a grasp for air.
Now my grandpa thinks I look like a boy,
I can’t help but think of gender as a toy.
A game you can cheat, but never quite win,
A myth I’ve stopped believing in.
Grandpa cling to a truth so small,
While I see no sense in a wall at all.
I am female. But if you approach me as a he or they or anything I won’t mind. I don’t rly like football, and I’ve grown to love dresses. But now wear them because I want to not because anyone expects me to.