Dear Black Americans:

I do not know you

and do not know how

to know you

without appearing

superior, comfortable,

without looking as if I am

studying you as an object,

turning my gaze

to the curious

and the unknown.

I am uncomfortably

aware that I hold power,

that it is I who initiate

the invitation, not you,

that it is you who know me,

a White American, better

than I know myself, for

though I’ve averted my eyes

for decades, you have been

studying me, a white person,

learning my practices and rules,

my walls and boundaries

for longer than history

has recorded.

And yet…

here I am, reaching out

to know you better,

no — to know you just a little,

for I do not know you

cannot say I know you

the real you, at all.