Original Source

Where am I from?

They ask.

As if I am supposed to know.

I try and divine

what they want or mean

I hesitate and gauge the situation, patient

for misunderstandings to abound.

Where do I live? Where I do not yet know.

Not far from my birthplace, but it’s far from fair to place me there.

And where I lived longest I am a stranger

and it looks, lately, less like home.

Do you mean my parents?

They are migrants too.

Camping here and moving there

as the economic winds blow

so our family’s sails billow.

And I don’t expect

I know where’s next.

What about my blood?

My heritage?

I am as English as they come

(By which I mean still part refugee)

But you don’t mean that because I am white enough.

And no, my voice won’t help you either.


I come from my experiences as much as my kin

My birth tells you no more than my colour of skin

And this mythical hometown-true North within

is a figment of your imagination.

Posted in Me

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