"Get Out," They Say

"Get out," they say

as they sneer in my face.

They mock my skin color

as they lay out in the sun tanning.

They side-eye my hijab,

tracking my every movement.

They question my allegiance,

asking if I'm a terrorist.

"No," I whisper as I

look them in the eye.

"Get out," my ancestors say

as they stand against their oppressor.

They are mocked for their dark skin color, 

a reminder of their endless hours in the fields.

Their worn clothes stand out against

the fine fabric of the upper class.

Their alliances torn as doubt is

spread by the British colonists.

"No," my ancestors whispered as

they were beaten for protesting peacefully.