I recommend a city. 

She says not that city.

I have heard bad things. 

What things? It’s all 

falafel shops and foreigners. 

You mean foreigners like

me. No. Different. In France

I am stopped at the border

by a woman who studies 

my passport like a counterfeit

bill, a tenner I might use

to buy cigarettes. In class,

I am told to write more

about suffering,

to steal another tongue

for better sonics.

My family is happy

there are Balkan shops

on my street. The locals tell me

things have changed here.

No one at home will believe

what they call us, how worried they are

we might stay –

except my grandfather

who asks and how do they see you

then every summer

asks me again.