Father's day is complicated for me.

I miss my dad, the man who snuck into my room at night to tell me about the Yankees. The man who introduced me to baseball.

I don't miss my dad, the man who helped my mother abuse me and chose her over me.

I miss my dad, the man who worked three jobs to make ends meet, the man who said that the most important thing about a person was their character.

I don't miss my dad, the racist man who used racial slurs, said white men were oppressed, and listened to Hannity and Limbaugh.

I miss my dad, the man who would take me to work to hide me from my mother.

I don't miss my dad, the homophobic bigot who told me that being queer was an abomination.

I made the right decision in cutting him off. But it hurts all the same, for he's the only father I ever had. I wanted the experience of father-daughter time. I wanted to be his little girl. Instead, I was a disappointment, unable to be the son he desperately wanted.

I don't know why I miss him and not my mother. Maybe because he showed me kindness. But his kindness was conditional, withheld unless I conformed to the male role he wanted me to fill.

As his eldest daughter, I was nothing to him.