he came to me,
this African man,
and in a thick accent,
asked; “how dare you
write about being black? 
what do you know about
oppression, about racism,
about history?”
I replied;
“I used my imagination.”
he scowled and said;
“you have no right.”
defensively, I exclaimed;
“I only did it because
the Native wrote as if
he were white.”
together, the African
and I found the Native,
and I pointed a finger
accusingly.  “how dare
you write about being white? 
what do you know about
having to live down your
ancestors’ evils?  it is
not my fault your
people died.”