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When I think about my birth
I think of how a refugee might feel;
Stuck in a certain sort of life
But now looking towards a light
Like it’s the one at the end of a tunnel.
When I was born into the world,
Push came to shove and I was forced
Away by arms that should harbour love,
Into cold hands and artificial gloves
like the ones that meet the select few
who are funnelled to another channel
at Airport customs and placed in a queue
to be pulled and inspected like enamel
by a dentist, one who doesn’t like you.