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“Dear Dad.” Those words come easily.
He taught you how to dive when you were four
and you stood on his hands. He never let you
fall till you were ready.
Look back, lean back—trust the water.

What do you expect to happen?
He will never call you “son.”
Is there a point in telling him at all?
Still—
He’s your dad. He never let you fall.
What makes you think he’d do it now?
You take a breath
and write, “My friends call me
a man.”

When you were nine you climbed the ladder
of the high-dive,
and when you were just about to jump,
you froze.
You weren’t afraid of heights,
exactly, or of falling—
but when you looked down,
the thought seized you: what if
the water, rushing up to meet you
turned to solid ground?
Fear held you there.
You couldn’t climb back down, and diving
seemed impossible.

You chew your lip. It is an option to
say nothing, you suppose—to keep your name,
and let your short hair be short hair, your men’s
clothes merely cloth,
and nothing more.
You could just save the truth
for when you are alone, take refuge in
the ambiguity, and spare yourself
this agony. You type, and then erase
and type again.

You can’t stay on the diving
board forever, kid, said Dad, and he
was right—the only way to get yourself
to safety was to dive. You turned around,
heels halfway off the edge.
Look back, lean back,
you muttered, and you
fell.

You steeled yourself
for your inevitable death,
but when the water came to meet you
and you plunged headfirst,
it was just water.
You came up
gasping and sputtering—
but still alive.
Alive. Alive.

He might not need to know,
but you still need to tell him.
You breathe in,
then out, nod resolutely,
and prepare to dive.

Look back, lean back, and trust the water.

Send.