The president said:
I wonder if it’s that simple?
I am forty now, Native, born in Richmond, Indiana.
I went to school there, then then Oxford, then East Lansing
I work at this college we call the Public Ivy.
I am the only person of color in my program.
The steps from the Library lead down into the Miami homelands,
through a park, then I cross Patterson,
Toward Western, past Bachelor, and I come to Cook Field,
the I can see the Farmer School, where my wife takes the elevator
up to her office, I sit in my car, and write this page:
It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at forty-and-change, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, America, I hear you.
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear the Midwest, too.) Me—who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, game, learn, and understand life.
I like a Nintendo for a Christmas present,
or comics—Moore, McFarlane, or Schrab.
I guess being Cherokee doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it cannot be white.
But it will be
a part of your America, Mr. President.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s America. Great again?
It’s really clear you don’t want to be a part of me.
And try as I might, I hate the idea of being a part of you.
But we are, that’s we two, it’s what we do,
As I learn from you,
you better fucking learn from me—
because you’re hateful—and white—
and piss all over people like me.
This is my page re: Tweets on September twenty-three.