Making Her Great

My house was perfect,

Mother told me “Khadijah,

My dear, don’t worry, we’ll be back;

My dear, bring your backpack.

Must know, ‘this storm will pass.’”

Mistake of mine perhaps,

Mine, for only seeing a half empty glass.

The doors keep closing,

Tell me mother, who won’t accept us?

“The Golden King.”

That’s ok, one more day

That we have nowhere to stay.

Thank you so much,

Mr Trump.

As I know how you see us,

As just numbers.

Thank you for your brainless brightness.

We’re numbers,

But we are countless.

I know how you see yourself, as the number 1,

So I’ll be number two,

But I can see your view

Of the red, white and blue.

Not taking the blue of our lives,

Shedding the red of our blood,

And keeping the white;

As “the truth stands out clear from error.”

And with respect Mr Trump,

Can I ask you:

“What is (wrong) with you?

Why do you not help each other?”

But aid the border?

We’re desperate, me and mother.

Accept us and we’ll accept what you say,

“We hear and we obey…”

But you won’t accept us,

And they won’t accept you:

“Not my president.”

كَذَٰلِكَ زَيَّنَّا لِكُلِّ أُمَّةٍ عَمَلَهُمْ

I won’t enter the Freeland.

As America needs to be Great,

Without me.