Poems about Immigration
I concur.
If it's against my religion,
it should be illegal.
And while we're passing laws,
My daddy built an empire with his tender, 18-year-old hands
as he kneaded the pizza dough for $5 an hour
His skin looks old, brown, and wrinkled; scarred by the Mexican Sun;
His wrinkles are a chronicle of his life-long Wisdom.
When I was younger, I read a series called the American Girl Diaries
They were books about girls with red hair and freckles
They say,
I ought not be involved,
With the people here,
The culture of my peers.
Their ways are defiled,
In the shadows I stand,
Waiting for the day when I am no longer called illegal
Am I from outer space?