a heavy weight sat on my chest,

day 2442,

six years of civil war and

six years of empty promises to 

my children who aren’t mine,

my children who must be mine,

my children who have no home.

there’s something so wrong about

seeing tangled, brown hair and sweet, big eyes,

the epitome of innocence and life,

lying motionless, mouth agape and drool 

pooling on a doll toy clutched in small, dirt encrusted fingers,

forever frozen in time

and covered in dust.

sun streaks through the dirt room,

can i even call it a classroom

and my children who aren’t mine

sit and count with me 

one i promise them,

two they won’t end up like Fariha,

three that i will keep them safe.

I-589

the forms are filled painstakingly,

arabic to english from a

ripped dictionary,

i ignore the blood stains on the edge (what foreigner decided language should be read from left to right?),

so me and my classroom full of children,

My children,

can start anew.

the dull life in a refugee camp

is not for the young,

not for their bright eyes,

but we laugh,

i hold them close and tell them stories of tomorrow

where their numbers won’t be to count rationed food,

but to count the choices they have in life.

they said no

refugee was apparently not good enough for safety,

the “land of immigrants”

not the “land of refugees”

i should have known

my children wouldn’t have a safe life

because an american president couldn’t overcome his islamophobia.

the land of immigrants?

more like the land of hate

a land that will use incoming people

their culture, their ideas, their souls

just another thing to be used and disposed 

plastic

invisible to those with wealth.

refugees are unwelcome,

dark skin is unwelcome,

religious people are unwelcome;

it turns out

the american promise,

the promise of freedom and love and acceptance, 

is a lie.