This poem was originally published on 27 June 2017.

It makes me sick,
But it is my comfort space,
Amongst people passing through
this inbetween,
In transit to places,
With different coloured faces;
But a case like mine?
They’d never seen.

They like their boxes,
And to them I am a fool,
So they stuff me into whatever space
they would spare,
Hoping I won’t play,
And don’t overweigh,
As if my identity,
Was their burden to bear.

Sayer sang it,
And I’ve lived in seven houses,
But never once have I –
gone home.
Manchester to Midland,
I’m caught in this prism,
And as a constant foreigner,
I am forced to roam.

At the gate now,
And he asks for my papers;
I wish I could present
my inked skin,
For the little black book,
Between my fingers,
Rests a heavy lie,
And I feel like a sin.