I walk to the Black poet. I stand before the Black poet. I say, Black Poet, I heard what you said, I hear you. Black Poet shakes my outstretched hand. I grip the hand as if its grip will squeeze all the caught blood out of my face and into the handshake. Black Poet says, Thank you for coming. Black Poet glances at my bushy hair and my flat nose, and then to my pale yellow face. Black Poet does not linger on my grey-blue eyes. For a moment, I expect recognition. Black Poet glances to the heads in line behind me. Goodbye Black poet, I say. Hello, Black Poet says to the heads behind me. I take one hundred and fifty large steps. I let each year pass. I am Black, I say to the miles between the Black Poet and me. Alright, Black Poet says to the space.