Dirt

I don’t have a home country, I was
born in a hospital bed
atop the linoleum floor
atop layers of cement and then
atop the dirt that carried centuries of life
before there was a country here.

I didn’t have a home country, until you
planted that idea in my mind
and it grew roots without my realizing
it took over, I barely got the chance to see the world
without borders before you taught me
how to memorize the map,
as if it were nothing more than lines.

I don’t have a home country, I have people
There we those that raised me
and those I just met yesterday,
a network ever growing,
that feeds the garden in my brain
and the written words of those I’ve never met
still speak to me, they tell me:

I don’t have a home country, and if I do
I don’t want it, I don’t want this divide
I don’t want to exist as a comparison to someone else
I don’t want to know where my skin ends
and your skin begins, do you get me?
I just wanna hold your hand.