Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago...
my father brought me flowers,
cheerful in the vase as I cramped,
embarrassed by their public color,
his male mention of my new body,
Today when I bled
I remembered the cone of blossoms.
Now he is gone.
Now my shame is done.
All that remains is my memory
of petals and stems
and grant us this,
red bloom of truce.