There are too many poems about fathers.
Or not enough. I used to hate mine until
I remembered the fortune teller’s theory
that my father and I are symbols of each
other—maybe this is why in my dreams
I say goodbye to him last whenever
I go on a mission across the river—We’re
a Tiger Father and a Snake Daughter who
aren’t supposed to get along, the insistence
of tigers that they’re the leaders of the zodiac—
the secrecy of snakes, like how the idea of
living a discreet life resonates so much with
queer little me. A lover asks if my father
knows that I’ve kissed girls. I tell him that
men don’t need to know everything. Tiger Dads
always do the most—or is the magical four
letter word actually best in this case. As a child,
I took home the gold from math competitions:
use the four numbers on the card to create 24—
I’d watch other children cry when they lost
their rounds, stoic little me staring at their tears,
their mothers hugging them, saying they could
now leave and go to McDonald’s. How sad it is
to lose and eat McNuggets, is a feeling I’ll never
know, because my dad was always the last person
I said goodbye to before rounds—my lucky symbol,
two rivers cross—I don’t want to get all Freud,
but my mother and I get along better in life,
while my father and I get along better in dreams,
both real and imagined. In Kowloon, he takes me
to the McDonald’s where he won a gold pen
when he was a young man. Tiger Dads only breed
winners, and more stories where I inherit qualities
from my dad: his high alcohol tolerance, his habit
of four hours of sleep per night, the assumption of
authority everywhere I go—the raw ambition,
and I feel like Veronica Lodge in the episode
when she visits the guidance counselor who tells her
that Veronica and her father are parallels of each
other. Like Veronica, I’m the desirable girl walking
around like I own the place, whose father would buy
me a baby tiger if he could—pushing me to win at life.
