my father is dictatorial in his tenderness.
even the plainest tasks — ones that i am fully capable of doing myself — he insists on doing for me. washing my clothes, peeling my fruits, tying my shoes, braiding my hair; the list carries on forevermore. in his arms, i am made out to be small and delicate, a baby cradled in something that can only mimic the safety of a crib. his touch does not...
