The sun has long set over this cursed land
Don’t call me an American
That blood-soaked flag never bore me any semblance of safety
Felt the red-hot resentment of every white officer I’ve come across
Barrel down the back of my neck, since my very first “routine” traffic stop
Don’t call me an American
I shut my eyes and see bombs bursting, reducing centuries old sites to rubble
Libraries, hospitals, temples decimated in an instant
I hear the mournful screams of children snatched straight from their mothers’ arms
And nothing but pure lies spewed about the air waves
Don’t call me an American
I reject the status, this nation’s founding fathers never intended it for me anyhow
May have been born of this soil, but this soil was never of my blood
My presence here, merely a misstep by my predecessors
Convinced to leave sparkling beaches and unspoiled waters behind for the gossamer promise of opportunity
How could they have known they were being duped?
I’ll admit, the grift used to be good
But I’ve never been an American
Unsold on commodifying art
Unsullied by the greed of endless competition
Unmoored from standards of decency crafted by amoral autocrats
Don’t call me an American
Hayden Winston 
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