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.