The high street is six feet under,
with some petrol garage flowers trodden into the dirt above her face.
I am waiting for the Daily Mail’s daily reminder that I am to blame,
for being a millennial,
who never shops,
is sick of renting,
and has the blood of dirty immigrants running through her veins.
Once upon a time,
one of my neighbours told me,
and without provocation,
that I was an abomination,
and I have heard more times than is necessary or healthy,
that there ain’t no black in the Union Jack
(We get it, you guys are mad about immigration),
but I’m not sure what they’d like me to do about it.
It’s just a piece of fabric,
for fuck’s sake,
and I’m a living,
screaming human being,
with black in them,
and a British passport,
so what exactly am I meant to do?
If I had a choice,
do you really think I’d have spawned on hell island,
with its dead high streets,
constant rain and constant conservative governments?
I suppose random racism takes the edge off of the cliff edge that many of us find ourselves dangling from,
it won’t put food on your table,
but it gives you someone to shout at,
someone to scare,
some way to feel that you are still the powerful prince of the British Empire.
You can’t eat a flag.
You can’t fuck a flag either,
but I bet they’ll try.