Get off,
take the 9 back uptown.
Home.
April meets me at the door.
Gives me a huge hug, pulls me further in:
Dad’s laid out on the couch.
Mom holds his feet, rubs them,
yellowed, gray.
Dad says he’s glad I’m back.
That he was worried about me.
He’s sorry I had to see him
like that.
He tells us to sit down.
Girls, there’s something I need to tell you.
My stomach knots around his words.
He wipes a tear.
I take April’s hand.
Try not to cry,
but I know what he’s going to say.
I am HIV Positive.
April sobs,
drapes herself across his knees.
I whisper how long?
Years he says.
My breath comes quicker.
Mom says they wanted to protect us,
didn’t want us to worry,
to take on more responsibility.
He’s been okay for a long time.
I can’t breathe.
Dad goes on, says he’s on new meds,
could still live for many more years.
Mom smiles, says yes, he could,
that they’re working on cures all the time.
Says she doesn’t have it, James does.
April sobs and sobs.
Mom rubs her back.
Dad says I’m still your dad, the same man I’ve always been.
But whoever this is,
this man
who parades his lover around the house,
who doesn’t prepare his children
for what’s happening,
who isn’t honest until it’s too late,
who doesn’t realize preparation is protection,
whoever this is,
yellowed, gray,
he is not my father.