Diaspora Leaves

A poem

Photo by Caique Nascimento on Unsplash

Diaspora leaves fall from trees with roots.
Ordinary people, Black as midnight and brighter than the sun,
moving through this cold, dark world
dreaming and dreaming of what they will become.
They arrive in some hostile places
and create culture where they land.
Bend language and weave style into a patchwork quilt —
a montage of the many ways to be human.
Societies demand they assimilate,
defer their dreams and watch them rot in pieces.
But the resistance inside their DNA
may call them to live closer to the stars —
on the edge of life.
And when the air is thick with judgement
they survive by breathing in moonlight.
And when the ache in their chests feels like a canonball
they may scream at the top of their lungs
and listen for the familiar echo of home
to spur them on and on and on.
They’re not here to hurt anyone,
so forgive them for trying to make it somewhere
and be someone.
They want what you want;
the antidote to war and misery and poverty.
They want fairness and kindness and love —
in this lifetime.