To the New Parents at the PFLAG Meeting

If you are the parent of a queer child, you will not be punished for casting them out.
No one will arrest you for the exorcisms or threats; no one will fault your shame.

If you have a god, you may have to wrestle him for peace. You might win.

You can tell yourself that your children will end up in the hell they deserve,
or that it’s just a phase, or that you are willing to help them get better.

But, if it helps to know, many of our parents have chosen to practice the art of loving the way they once did violin, or fishing, or cursive.
If you choose this path, have patience. You will not be good, at first.

Your children may not thank you for the effort.
You may remember: neither did they thank you for changing their diapers.

Practice love like you once held a plastic doll or a paper sack of flour
in anticipation of their arrival.
The seat of your hip. Your elbow, a cradle.
The feel of a fontanel under your fingertips.

We are still your babies.

If you should find yourself crying, screaming red, eyes shut and confused, remember:
this is normal.

Remember their births: how they came crying, screaming red, betrayal on their faces.

Remember what you said:
welcome to this knifepoint asphalt world, sapling.

I am your gardener. These are your roots.
I can’t wait to watch you bloom.