The immigrant

A poem

I am the one who is not from here
it goes without saying, I am an immigrant
Not a traveler, an immigrant.

That person who is snatching away from his land
Who on leaving has lost a part of himself
Who lingers a little empty gaze, a little tired
I’m not the most to complain about
In many ways I’m lucky.

I have a job where I work hard
You don’t cross the seas to be idle
A flat where I live
Filled with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and silence.
My family reunions are video calls
And a little vacation once a year.

My host country doesn’t hate me
And I love him back
He doesn’t know what to do with me.

Sometimes I’m the source of all his misfortunes
He points to me as a calamity.
Sometimes the source of his dreams of greatness
He celebrates me as an unexpected chance.

And I am neither
I’m just an immigrant
My dreams of better days have brought me here
And my heart sends me back.
Always shared, every step is undecided.

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