The Shame
They crossed the border, yes—
Illegally, some say,
As if desperation had time
To fill out forms.
“They have no right to be here,”
You declare,
As if the land had always been yours,
As if your ancestors asked permission.
Anchor babies,
You spit—
Little brown children
Born breathing freedom
You want to deny them.
“They live on our charity,”
You claim,
While fields are picked,
Homes are cleaned,
And taxes paid in silence.
But it’s not about borders.
White immigrants pass through the gate
With smiles and handshakes.
No one asks for papers
When they blend in.
This is our country,
You shout.
But whose country?
Yours by skin?
By fear?
By the comfort of sameness?
The shame is not theirs.
It is ours.
And it has no accent—
Only a mirror.