SLAM!

"Red, White and Blue" 

In the middle of spring, I lost my choice
of where to live when I turned eighteen.
I hoped to have a second chance.
My father became a citizen-a time to rejoice!--
but for me it came to mean
I could no longer take my pro-Netherlands stance.

After travelling to Holland, I soon heard a voice
luring me back to the country with lands so green,
where traditions and new thinking could in tandem advance.
Before going, my Omi told me I'd have to make a choice
to live there or in the States; towards this I was keen.
I grew to love Nederlands, to me a land of romance.
For me, the skinny streets beckoned me to a better way of life.

Omi taught me their mother tongue, and I'd rejoice
to hear it when they'd announce our trains arrival in their routine:
early or late mattered not to me, as long as I got the chance
to explore a land rife with greater choice.
From sawdust in wooden shoe shops to tramhopping and all in between,
my time in Holland was more fleeting than a dance.

During that visit, one could hear my chirping voice,
laughter ringing 'cross the dikes, rippling to the unseen:
paperwork and tests giving my father the chance
at an American passport, a document of his choice
to hand over his allegiance and money to the land of the mean.
On that May day, I awoke askance
at the dreadful hour when I'd journey south to a hall rife

with the chorus of hundreds swearing in one voice-
booming through the cavern- to take an oath for a land obscene.
Red, white and blue flood my eyes and enhance
the visions of drones in green camo robbing hundreds of a choice
to live within their means no matter how lean
so we can fatten up to our liking, not caring of our expanse.

And on this day when those denizens make their choice
to deny their children an option they had forseen:
two lands to call home, the ability to enhance
their lives in a safer land where more people will hear their voice.
When my father raised his hand in an oath so serene,
he recited the words to rob me of my chance
to choose the country in which I'll cultivate my own life.

In different tongues, I hear the horde's chorus rumble when they rejoice
as they swap green cards for passports of crisp paper and sheen.
As they wander out, I search for my father in a crowd that's ready to dance.
I call out for him; does he hear my voice?
One may wonder if they absorbed this scene:
flags waving from tired arms, hundreds shuffling to doors, children anxious to prance.

We drove back home to his residence of choice:
a one story dwelling where the family would convene
for a meal of American classics to celebrate his entrance
into the States as a citizen. Now he could trumpet his voice
to a deaf oligarchy intent on crushing people only meant to be seen.
Why, Dad, did you imprison me in a country I view with askance?
You robbed me of my choice, Daddy! You robbed me of my life!