Greetings

I shake the hands of men,
who would declare
that immigrants like my
parents ruined their country.

Men who show me that
my wrists are weak,
as they press down their conviction
of humanity, and all that is man,
onto my damp, shaky palms. Men
who inspect my pupils and wait
for my break of eye contact. Enough
justification of my personality
and their success.

Somewhere across the Pacific ocean,
on an island named Japan,
two men stare at the ground in silence,
as a means to say “Hello”.