You're not a boy.

Your face is too long, oblong.

That is what my father told me.

You are too loud.

Uncle Connie, my drunk Uncle.

I was called that, my childhood nickname.

Because I was too loud.

You have a Mexican father.

You mother is Russian, Polish.

A Rocket Scientist.

A way to block out something I had said.

Something I had read in a book,

was spoken. In an "Uncle Connie" loudness.

My second toe, on both feet, is weird.

My parents came to visit.

None of these things were address.

Nothing that I feel about them being my parents

and where I am now.

They, from my perspective, are (in part) responsible for me.

Who I am, how I feel about myself, and what I have become.

That is probably a Rocket Scientist theory.