Made in the USA

I am the flag of the country chosen for her beacon—holding hope, prosperity, stability like water in between open fingers.

I am the social worker called in on her day off to respond—as a bystander might at a burning home— how, exactly?

I am the shop owner switching "abrir" to "cerrado" at noon, worried about a day of sales lost and a dream torn apart in a day.

I am the officer upholding the Rule of Law that grinds against the Law of God in the way an ulcer is only a beginning.

I am the spouse abruptly set adrift, unmoored, ignored, whose cries for help at night willfully unheard echo through the canyon formed between intent and purpose—

I am the child whose parent won't be home tonight— whose chance at a carefree childhood was destroyed for politicking, profit, greed— whose siblings too early look to for comfort, assurance—absent my own.

I am the child I am the spouse I am the officer I am the social worker I am the flag

whose stripes in summer heat languish, whose winds of justice stagnate, whose symbolism willingly fouled.

You are the immigrant, undocumented, unvalued, inhuman—except—

fearfully and wonderfully made.