“This country is great”
I am an immigrant.
My dad came as a dreamer,
my mother a nervous wreck,
and I, the unwilling participant.

An interloper to my own home country.
I left as roots were yet to spread.
As the bud was yet to open.

“This country is great”
My father will hear no complaint.
In fact, he’ll hear no other opinion
But his own.

“This country is great”
Yes, it is.
But is it home?
Do I belong here?
These are questions I can only whisper to myself.
To no one else.

“Is this country great?”
I whisper in the mirror.
Or am I just thinking it?
God, anything to remain quiet.
Because sound carries in this two bedroom apartment,
Where it didn’t back home.

“This country is great”
That’s me now.
That’s my father in the mirror.
But where am I?

“This country is great”
I am forgetting my language.
I am forgetting my friends.
I am forgetting what “home” is.

“This country is great”
Wherever I am,
It is not here.