102 days before
TYPE
PoemThe police attack us at night.
Catch us as we try to sleep.
Round us up like cattle.
Hamid and I are taken to a processing centre.
We’re only ten minutes in the coach.
I had no idea prison was so close.
Memories of the centre in Turin
come flooding back.
My heart beats fast
and my legs go weak
as I picture another
barbed-wire cage.
We are told we’re
illegal migrants.
Baba used to say,
Everyone is on the move,
always has been,
always will.
What makes it OK?
The colour of your skin?
There are British
who live in Europe.
They are called expats,
not immigrants.
Language can so easily
put you on top
if you’re lucky enough
to be the ones
giving out the labels.
I guess migration is only
a human right
if you are the
right kind of human.
© Manjeet Mann from The Crossing, Penguin Random House