You Can Take The High Road . . . I Won’t
Y’all go ahead and take that high road. I don’t wish Trump well.
I see him clearly. Not through the veil of an office he disrespects every minute he’s awake. You can romanticize him now that he’s sick. I won’t.
And I wish him some things.
I wish him great suffering, in the name of every BIPOC.
I wish him pain, in the names of every beautiful little soul in a cage who will never feel his mother’s warm embrace again.
I wish him fear, in the names of all those who have died without their father who carried them across the border in the hope of the promise that America would welcome them and give their family a fighting chance.
I wish him struggle, in the name of every LGBTQ person whose rights he fights.
I wish him nightmares, for all the families whose last view of their loved one was through a window at an overrun hospital, who had to see bodies being loaded into freezer trucks for storage.
I wish him anxiety, in the name of every woman and girl he raped or otherwise sexually assaulted.
I wish him humiliation, for everyone who has lost a job because he couldn’t be bothered to do his.
I wish him weakness, in the name of those who can’t afford healthcare.
It’s too much to dare hope there would be a breakthrough, to teach him a sliver of empathy or responsibility or humanity.
But I surely wish him some things.