To the girl in the velvet dress:

When you were born

You signed an unspoken contract

To agree to the silence

To not ask questions

To not challenge the status quo

The evidence is written

In stiff photo album poses and diamond smiles

In grand halls with high ceilings and tiny forks

In rides on friends’ boats

In itchy velvet kids clothes on Christmas morning

In safety handed out like rations

In exchange for pretending that everything is ok

The rules you agreed to say

To honor where you came from

To get invited to gentleman’s-only clubs and say

Thank you

To stay calm when a man

Who invites you to dinner in the cigar room

Says we’re living in a woman’s world

Because to slice open hypocrisy is to

Slice open your father

To pop him like a balloon

When all he wants is his daughter to love him

And watch him shrivel and deflate

Then feel wrong and sorry and ungrateful

Even though he’s never been sorry once

Being born

May have gotten you into those hallowed halls

But once you’re there

You’ll have no need to write conspiracy theories because

You can see what’s on the inside

The world your father loves is just men basking in power, content as they are

Drinking martinis and

Pissing on redwood trees

But you’ll also learn

Scorched by attempts at critique

That it’s safer to love your father

And be grateful he loves you

Than to point out what is wrong again and

Light his gunpowder

So trembling

You’ll settle in and

Swallow your tongue

Honoring the blood pact

With the man you love most

On a fancy couch by the fireplace

Laughing at his jokes over oysters

Breathing in ash

In a velvet dress