White man’s dining table

My first breath is a revolution and my dying one a violation of guidelines.

The white man’s first breath is called an evolution with his last inscribed on a park bench shrine.

You tell me we’re in this together but I’ve been mourning wondering whether,

it’s easier to live in the legacy of someone like me, who adds colour to your vanilla flavoured poetry.

It’s easier to be an allegory, a fable hanging on the wall next to a white man’s dining table,

than a guest sitting next to your Uncle Sam, who turned my birth certificate into immigration papers.

Why? So you can be my saviour?

I’d rather starve than eat your unseasoned feast of fables.

You tell me we’re in this together but I’ve been been mourning wondering whether,

you know we’re not equal so you give the Zionist more diesel.

Hush now in case they hear you and call you a heretic. They tell you you’re in this together but they got you by your dick.

You can fight for me on borrowed time but serve them 9 to 5.

Sharpie rhyming slogans and screaming free Palestine. Boycott the middle man but keep the infrastructure standing high.

I don’t want your slogan, your hashtag, or a 30 second feature reel.

I want your privilege!

Your comfort!

Your better end of the deal!

Where is my goddamn parallel ?

Where is my golden globe story portrayed by some self obsessed, demon possessed, status climbing culture vulture?

Who’ll turn my struggle into research, a method acting weekend project spent polishing the knobs of film snobs who drop bombs but eat kosher?

You tell me we’re in this together but I’ve been mourning wondering whether,

you love the painting of my struggle more than the truth of my dying breath under the rubble.