Bloody Immigrant Poem by Ray Anyasi

I came on a plane.
I paid to be here.
I paid. Should my spine ache or my liver fail.
I paid to see a physician.
I'm like a guest in a beautiful resort.
But the resort owners think I'm a problem.
They think letting me stay in the resort was a mistake.

The immigrant is a pest seeking acceptance.
He feels like one.
He seeks nothing but to be one with his host.
But he hears whispers.
He hears them grumble about him.
They say he's the reason they can't afford the luxury no longer.
He hears he's the cause of inflation.
He hears them complain.
They say health services has crumbled and it is his fault.
He hears the rise of crime is his fault.
Crimes that have been happening a thousand years before his plane landed.
Or his boat grinds unto the shore.
He hears this on the news.
It is on every media.
He thinks about this when he runs into Austin in the staircase.
Does he want me gone?
He wonders if his classmates hate him for being here.
Kate at work moans about the tax.
He wonders if she thinks it's his fault.
Kirk slipped and fell by the curb.
The immigrant prays he doesn't blame his presence for it.

I feel guilty when anything goes wrong.
When a crime is reported on the news.
I feel guilt.
When ambulance services falter,
I feel guilt.

Our immigrant lays on his bed one night.
He fiddles through the blue and white of Facebook.
Someone says a person the colour of his skin has done a murder.
In the comments.
Everyone says all people who look like him are like this.
They are all murderers.
They are all rapists.
They are all thieves.
Barbarians.
Animals.
Criminals.
He lays his phone by his pillow.
Shuts his eyes.
But he knows there shall be no sleep.
Morning.
He steps on the bus to work.
Scanning the faces of the other passengers.
He believes these are the same people writing in those comments.
He would love to say good morning.
He wouldn't.
Surely, they aren't happy to see him.
He finds someone like him by the back seat.
In a moving bus, he labours to go all the way.
Yet they wonder why he does not integrate.

The father of my father's father was a simple man.
He told no lie.
He carves a ram head on a stone.
He kneels before it and worshipped.
Here I am.
Praying to a cursed Hebrew who died on a dirty wooden cross.
Here I am.
Accused of not integrating.
The mother of my mother's grandmother wrote no letters.
She wore a white cotton robe woven in her backyard till her fingers withered.
Here I am.
Wearing hoodies and denims.
Here I am.
Found guilty of failing to integrate.
My grandfather spoke Igbo.
Here I am.
Speaking English, pretending to be Robert Burns.
Here I am.
Being blaimed for not integrating.
My aunt cooks okpa and ukwa on Afor days.
But yet again.
Here I am.
Drinking coffee every morning.
Making sandwiches for lunch.
Boiling potatoes for dinners.
And yet again.
Here I am.
Accused of not integrating.

Our clan leader.
He is a foolish man.
He steals our harvests.
Hide them in your barns.
He goes to your firesides to have his full.
His wives.
His son and girl too.
They come to your tables to eat.
You have a feast every night.
But I am not welcome to join you.
You are kind, you see.
Every half moon that comes,
You send some portions of your meal.
Our leader to feed us with.
But he won't.
He would eat again to his full.
Whatever is left of this portion,
He will send back to your barns.
In the end,
Your portion of kindness intended for me
Never gets to me.
Instead, returns to your barns
And you know it.
And you are kind.

Your leader though,
He is a shrewd man.
He sets our house on fire.
He says rats in our house are a menace to your peace.
So he sets our house on fire.
I have no where to sleep.
I need a bed that is warm.
I need a shelter from the rain.
If I come to your house to get shelter,
I am the problem.
Yet again,
You are kind.
You send me coats to cover from the cold.
So kind of you.
But I would that your leader did not burn my house.
Or that you let me now share your bed at the least.
But that would make me a nuisance, yes.
I know you don't like strangers invading your house.
But please,
Stop setting my house on fire next time.
Please.
Stop making my foolish leader steal our harvest,
Then hide them in your barns.
We all
don't like when strangers knock on our doors.
We all
should stop making strangers need to leave their homes.