And on this day
I feel lucky to have skin lighter than my father’s, than my grandma's,
“Please come come safely”
She says,
And I listen
Even though I want to stand on the street and shout
But I know she’s scared
And I tell my friends to stay inside too.
They plan to gather on the Golden Mile -
So-called because of the factories that lined the road some 60 years ago
They’ll chant “off our streets” while walking the same path that bore my grandma’s footsteps home from work,
15 years of her life spent packing biscuits which sat nice and pretty on the table with your imported tea,
Until the factory closed
because they realised they could pay another woman
in another place
pennies for those biscuits
and not have to to look her in the eyes.
And my grandad, a lifelong vegetarian, made his way home stinking of the dog food factory,
His Indian law degree gathering dust on the living room wall,
“Stealing your jobs”.
And in the end, the enemies of the working class are not travelling on dinghies, they’re travelling on private jets
They’re laughing at white working class Britons as you blame the brown ones,
They’ve been seeding you for years
They’re throwing us into a ring and shouting “fight”.
And they watch, unseen, from the balconies as they take money from our education,
Sell our healthcare,
Keep us down under their thumb,
Lining their pockets as they knock down family homes and build flats for offshore billionaires,
And do you prefer those billionaires because they’re off your streets?