You went into labor, not knowing my name.
It was a shock to you when I came.
You thought I’d be a stillbirth,
Thought I’d slip out of you strangled and blue in this Earth.

Dad has to tell you over and over that you weren’t dreaming.
Your eyes, as always, will start gleaming.
You didn’t name me for nearly a week.
You didn’t hold me or even speak.

When I was four,
You said my name in a way I never heard before
Each syllable was hard as a steel ball,
As if reminding me that it’s the only name everyone should call

I disliked my name, hated it even
So sometimes I’ll tell people that I’m George or Steven.
They weren’t mine, but they were better.
Hearing this, your lips will always pursed and turn bitter.

You take it as a personal insult somehow.
I know by the way you wrinkle both of your eyebrow.
Is it bad that your daughter is a son?
You have to accept that nothing could be done.