Shouting frantic hyperbole
over some non-existent attack
on the right to bear arms,
while what you truly came for
was the right to their womb
The thief in the night,
the snake oil salesman,
the father who still thinks
he knows best
Sixty-seven years later,
the television sitcom,
still the perfect title
for the poison of patriarchy
Father Knows Best,
you've always convinced yourself,
as you reminisce of the days
when your TV screen was
black & (heavy on the) white
Father Knows Best,
how to run your segregated
nineteen fifties life,
your quaint little home,
closet doors kept tightly shut
Father Knows Best
how to sit in his easy chair,
newspaper in hand,
and demand obedience
Twenty-years before
Jane Roe's left hook
sent Henry Wade
and all of Dallas County
to the mat
When you came to,
you were bruised and scarred
from the knockout blow,
the court having the audacity
to tell you someone's uterus
did not belong to you,
You’ve been plotting
your revenge ever since
Father Knows Best,
you still declare,
even decades into
the 21st century
Father Knows Best
about fallopian tubes
he does not have,
about a clitoris
he never even bothers
to find
Father Knows Best,
as you continue to glorify
the father of your country,
who thought he could own
and control the entire bodies
of hundreds of humans
Father Knows Best,
The father of your party
grabbed 'em by the pussy
and you decided you had
the right to do the same
Father Knows Best,
say four thousand three hundred
ninety-two Catholic Priests
I guess fathers still can't
keep their hands to themselves
24 Oct 2021
