I am not your father.
Sure, I have contributed your y chromosome, but you have been shaped by cosmic forces.
When your mother was pregnant with you I spoke to a Djaberu and asked him for the blueprint of a son. He reached into his witch-chest and showed me the different figurines. I said I wanted a son who would be good at basketball and would be a lawyer. He took out a clay figurine. He put a little basketball in one hand and a little book in the other and waved it over your mother’s stomach. Then he made love to her wearing one of my socks.
Needless to say I have made the necessary sacrifices at the temples of the asteroids and , imbibing the mixture of psilocybin and beer, asked the asteroid for a prophetic dream which would let me know what television show I should show you as a young man — “Friends”.
And of course I rode upon one of the priestesses of Bakr-Bazu through the steppes for a night until she fell down exhausted and in exchange for three gold coins spoke your name , your true name which is “Joe”.
So I am not your father. The Diaberu is your father. The witch chest is your father. The asteroid is your father. The writers of the show “Friends” are your father. The priestess of Bakr-Bazu is your father. And the patriarch Joseph, endlessly titillated by the wife of Potiphara, he is your father.
What, father, what?
Unless you accept me as such and we play basketball together.
Father, I accept you.
And my father taught me “The Give and Go”.