You’re right, it isn’t my country,
despite swapping states,
like I used to swap Pokémon cards,
and completing the assimilation game,
without cheat codes.
“Uncertainty is excellent,
all is well.”
Says ageing, expat, pop star scum.
I’ve never stolen anything,
but the hearts of a few,
and even then,
I returned them, with interest.
I still can’t shop without being watched,
I’m hoping my private reality show is cancelled, soon.
He’s right, this isn’t my country ,
despite all I’ve given.
I wanted to be just like you, once,
or at least the you on sale in gift shops.
Tea, Oxbridge pleasantries,
it isn’t real,
and now, neither am I,
despite the very real passport in my possession,
that is happy to claim me as one of your own.
I only want to own myself,
and walk the streets,
hopeful, as you do.
I do not go where I am not allowed,
I’ve never taken life,
but I hope to give it.
All I take is what I earn,
and I’m open to sharing.
“Imaginary independence is excellent,
all is well.”
Says banker of the people, yet peoplesceptic scum.
They’re right, this was never my country.
I am too changed for my old home,
and never enough for my new home.
This is not what I hoped to leave,
for the next me,
who is refusing to enter,
for fear she will be forced to leave,
or worse, forced to stay, unwanted.
I will, if you’ll just let me pass.
It’s just up the street,
I’ve got a garden, with poppies,
not even just to assimilate,
and my Abuela will wonder where I’ve got to,
whether I address her in English or not.
I know, this isn’t my country.
Although, I have to ask,
why is my word only as good as the language it comes in?
“I don’t know what I ever did wrong,
nothing is well.”
Says the one the rags and rabble call scum,
but she is something to somebody,
I am something to somebody,
my only crime was being brown.
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Sincerely, Jennifer x
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