Dear Trump,

I remember all the ways

you came

down these white clean stairs

white like purity.

tie dragging itself across the ground

smearing blood down Pennsylvania Avenue,

Washington DC.

And you wanted similarity

you wanted boring

sameness.

Trump,

your last name is rare.

so shouldn’t it be you shoved into vans

by untrained uniformed patriots

because you're different too.

so shouldn’t you be sacrificed to the

sacred alligators?

jd vance sobs, ron desantis sighs

but I’ll still shake your bleeding hand.

cause you don’t know

what America is about.

America isn't

White.

it’s red white and blue,

America is

the fruit vendors lining the streets of LA

it’s the crowded restaurants, echos of the winds of freedom and

southern hospitality.

you’re not America.

The Buskers in the street

have ten thousand more

mother of exiles, beacon hands

lamps beside golden doors

your huddled masses yearning to breathe free

in their blood than you do.