Mexican Immigrant
He calls this August
In the morning between trees and metal,
The ground is shaking as he laughs,
He is almost there upon the lime covered trees over my country,
Down where little speak English,
And my home is upon bright sands between our fingers that
Pull tomorrow back to the time where mothers are left behind
Beneath nights of fear and nights of thick walls where people
Apologized constantly, (and forgot how to speak).
We walk through the city where the blood will breathe
And cover the summer sky,
I look back,
Reminding myself of the sun upon my head,
Of the moment when our children began to speak,
The night when we trembled and were afraid.
The night we kept quiet when we wanted to scream.
I stand once again to watch the evening,
And I am thankful upon the strange city of metal and concrete,
To have a better wage although no one holds me, or thanks me,
Perhaps it is a culture thing here, to be cold and not loving,
To mutter "immigrants" instead of "thank you"
To wish kicking out the brown people
When the original of this land are brown
And when there are so many of us helping out
Even when we struggle.
This is not my home.
That is true...
But it is not yours either.
The real home is of my brother
My brother Indigenous USA
Or what is left of him,
The ones that survived Columbus
But are barely managing to scrape by under reservations,
You call me immigrant
But the brown in my face
Comes from my indigenous blood
And is the same color of the Natives from this land,
The US indigenous and Native American is my brother
My blood is from here, the American continent,
I laugh at your comments
Telling me I don't belong in my own continent,
When you came from the European continent
And are directly from invaders.
The brown on my face is the same brown as the True Americans,
The ones you call "Native" Americans,
In refusal to let brown skinned people be called just "Americans"
With nothing in front it if.
White man and White woman, you are not American.
You are the invader.
You are the genocide and rape
That was hoping to kill off the indigenous
In their own land.
You are the traidor that kept breaking deals
When it came to returning the land.
You are Mount Rushmore being founded thanks to
The broken deal of returning Native land back to the Sioux,
You say "Indian giver" to cover up the broken pacts
Where you were promised to return Native land
But went back on your word.
Today I am tired of lies and the way you call this your home.
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