“Brexit” to Fix It: Late night poetry

“Go back to your home!”
He shouted at her…and…him
…and them.
And her and him and them
wanted to ask:
“What home?
The home touched
by your weaponry,
funded by what your hands
reach for in your jean pockets
when you want to buy this
and that,
berated by men in suits
around round wooden tables…
What home?
Our brown skin,
olive skin,
a shade darker than your
whiteness,
has you looking
over your shoulder
onto my hands,
as if I’d be carrying
the dagger you paint me in your
taploids carrying.
Headscarf, turban,
beard, niqab,
no headscarf, no turban,
beardless, niqabless,
what home? 

“Go back to your home!”
He shouted at her…and him…
and them.
And her and him and them
observed the news,
watched as lines on diagrams
of graphs plummeted
and bigotry beginning to rise,
wondering where
is home. 

“Go back to your home!”
He shouted at her…and him
…and them,
all the while forgetting that
his home 
was completed by diversity
of brown, olive-colored,
a shade darker
than your whiteness…

“Go back to your home!”
so you can close your borders
and have a happy independence day!

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