I’m home

I drag my suitcase alongside the paths to home
Without any coppers and silvers, I walk
The wheel comes off half way, oh no
Bitter, I’m sweated out
But I see a bus stop, I relax
I have a fiver

No glory, the bus never came
But offered a story, I now share

I sit waiting
The fear sets in when it is close to dark
What do I do, no money in my phone
Call a taxi
Via an awkward exchange and I owe yous
British style
I borrow the phone of a walker by and call

When the driver comes, I sit in
And thank gods
Until he asks where I’m from?
And its a ‘oh fuck’ from then onwards
I get it – because of my Brown skin
Uncomfortable shifts
A storm might blow
And a couple of Eff Eff Esses

But I’m English
So what if I’m Brown!
Phew to him
So am I catholic? He asks
Nah mate
Agnostic, I say
Another storm avoided
Also he’s too thick to know what that means
And when I explain
He ‘good girl’s’ me,
He likes me he says

What if I had said ‘Muslim’?
Would there have been a storm?
A racial slur under his breath,
A frantic cleaning of my blood stained seat,
A green bag thrown in a skip outside of Waitrose
A missing person in the local news – maybe
A mother crying in a foreign tongue
A confused faces of little children
And then a finally forgotten story

He ‘good girl’s’ me
He likes me as though I need an approval from a White man

I’m sick of this apology ridden existence
No one apologies to me!
For colonising my brain
Everyday reminder of what I’m not – White
I’m sick of the struggle
Where is Black power!
But I’m exhausted

I tip him like a colonial slave
And exit when ‘home’ comes
Guilty, I feel guilty
And ‘home’ is still yet to be found


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