My father changed his name to Henry

and became King of white people.

He pulled my spine from my back

to prove he commanded the holy sword.

Holy bone. The half-corpse

of his firstborn. I moved

as he willed. I danced. I prostrated

myself at his feet and said Lord.

And father. Holy father. I rose

when he introduced me to his partner,

an old white man who reads books

about Buddhism. This was the first step

towards enlightenment: find a Vietnamese man

who has left one body for another.

The new body a grail for a gay immigrant

father. I am just a reminder of the old ways. The boat

people didn’t answer the ocean’s song

when they rowed. The ones who did went under.

All of them leaving behind a world

I will never understand. This is what I mean

when I say I am spineless. When I said my father

took it from me, I meant to say God exists,

and he is my father, life-bringer, holy

immigrant. My body now my own forever.