Fierce-faced, tall, sturdy, white, bearded, in camo.

I was taught to be scared of men with profiles like yours.

Country-bred, trained in combat, knows the kill points.

But you defied every stereotype: warm not angry,

funny not sarcastic, hug-fueled not trigger happy,

with a deep bellowed laugh that shimmers with joy,

not the ominous cackles that make me want to Get Out.

When the supremacists catch you alone, they assume kin.

Instead, you lean in, grit teeth, say, I am not your brother,

walk away fuming. You take the hits, the spit, when

our affection enrages those who dehumanize

brown skin. I sat in constant anxiety, like when walking

alone at night, until you propped me up like an angel resting

on cumulus clouds and reassured, head on swivel need not be

my permanent state. You’ll be lookout so I can rest.

Raised by a Mexican abuela, in a family married

to all races, you put your foot in those enchiladas

cooked with soul, like your mac & cheese, and the pride taken

in the breakfast you make each morning as you dance to

reggaeton and model runway style just to make me giggle.

My symbol of happiness, safety, the lighthouse guiding me home,

you’ve shown me tenderness can live in the male gaze.

We both remain wary of men who look like you, proceed

cautiously, wondering what they have been taught about me.

Jasmine Vallejo-Love is a disabled Afro-Puerto Rican American poet and writer living in Los Angeles. Her work engages with social issues such as mental illness, domestic violence, addiction, and sexual assault. She is a Diana Woods Memorial Award finalist, 2025 Lambda Literary Emerging LGBTQ Voices Fellow, and was selected for PEN America’s Emerging Voices workshop and the McCormack (fka Tin House) workshop. Her work has been anthologized and appears in journals such as Pinch, Lunch Ticket, and Cholla Needles. Engage with her on Instagram @CafecitoWithJas