Identity by Rania Attafi

My feminist father would never claim this identity...

My feminist father is ashamed of knowing;

what’s in the cupboards of our kitchen,

where we keep the detergent,

How to properly do the dishes.

My feminist father is embarrassed

By his love for cooking and lecturing me about it;

Be kind to you casseroles, he tells me,

Be gentle with your ingredients.

I catch the smile that tugs on his disapproval.

My Feminist father feels guilty;

For not wanting to go out every night,

For preferring to stay at home.

He settles into his cozy corner,

We blame the cold for keeping him in.

Yet, My feminist father would never claim this identity…

Instead, it claims him.