For the Immigration Officer (Who asked why I’m nervous)

Well, sir, 

you see, 

I have spent my father's smile, my brother's youth, and my last dime.

I have said goodbye to my mother's laugh,
my church,
the kites that surf the sky
and the children who fly them.

I have missed carnivals,
funerals,
weddings,
protests,
and the children are now men.

I have used my patience,
my twenties,
my lifeline

To make sure I can wake up in this beautiful country,

To make sure I get to be

 in a land that, more often than I care to admit, 

pretends it didn't understand what I said
and thinks it’s absolutely hi-la-ri-ous to infer
I am loving my man

for a goddamn greencard. 

I have changed my name,
my accent,
my hand gestures,
my idea of what it means to be free.

I don't vote,
I don't drive yet,
and I don't dare scream

Because the price of being misunderstood is too high.

A misencounter with the law is an abrupt goodbye
to my new home,
my new family,
my dream

that my unborn children

will run around not knowing what it is like to fear any street,

night

or men

or beige rooms

with blond immigration officers

who ask why I'm shaking. 

"Don't worry, dear,”. - he says. - “It’s just a stamp."