I am an American. I am a bursting bubble!
I survey with an expectant smile.
Enthusiastically I trample around.
I offer hugs.
I throw myself.
 
I have a shadow self.
I say it will be alright.
And then it isn’t.
And then I squash the best parts of myself.
Down with all that isn’t boisterous glee.
 
Facets spark in different light.
In one hand I offer,
one hand is a fist.
Love me, hate me.
It’s fair.
 
I’m more restless than you know.
I know where I’m from, but
what is home? Still
I admit – proud? Of what, being born? –
I am an American.

Immigrant March