For him it wasn’t geographically wrong insults
the labels of Paki when his roots were Malawi
to save you googling it Malawi is in the world somewhere.
For him it was the lane where they punched him in the chest
his heart rang like a bell of meat in a worthless body
For him it was ten lads making him spit white shouting go home.
For him it was the 7am dash to the toilet and being obvious,
His sister shouting “hurry up, what are you dong in there”
His sister calling him disgusting and the guilt that he was.
For him it wasn’t skin colour it was his mind capsizing,
it was the day he believed all the insults they said were true,
it was the day he gave them silence, not even a letter.
For his sister it was the mirror at 7am being always available,
itt was the lifting of patchouli and his bag left hanging,
his bag left hanging, his bag left hanging, his bag left open,
swaying like a yoyo when she knocked it on the way to bed.
Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com
Peace Poet Antony Owen 