My parents marched to the land of the free

in hopes of a better future for their children

It was the United States after all,

the country made up of immigrants

Their courageous hearts left everything and everyone they knew,

to seek opportunities they never had 

My father's first steps on the road of the free

were filled with potholes and quicksand

He worked day and night,

rain and shine,

sweat dripping off his back,

in hopes of his children having a better future

Twenty years later,

my parents have yet to stop trudging through the desert of the free,

sweat still rolling down their spines like ants on a hill,

hands calloused like mittens on a cold, snowy night,

working like a warrior, but still facing racist remarks,

my parents have yet to see that all men are created equal

they have yet to see the "united" in the United States of America

America is the home of the brave,

but not the land of the free,

it won't be

until my parents, and others no longer need to work 'till sweat pours down their backs,

until my parents, and others are accepted here in this so called "land of the free".