Belonging

I am a Merican,
And – here’s the rub - Ritish,
Plus a touch of Ilipino.
Don’t laugh ! Rench,
With the odd Utch.
From a younger age, Erman,
And a little bit Alian.

Much blood has been spilt in these names.
Seemingly endless, fatal games.
Nationalism killing almost as many as ‘Belief’.
Good intentions ending inevitably in grief.

National Socialism.
National Front.
Chiang’s Nationalists.
Hunter, hunted… hunt.

These days I wave my flag of convenience
As I sail through the airport.
It’s shaped like Mao’s Little Red Book,
But it’s a deep-blue, American passport.

Haven’t lived there in years.
Customs man sneers before he clears.
Love it or leave it, his eyes seem to say.
It’s him and his kind, why I'm off and away.

But then when I pause, reconsider, take stock,
I have my P near Plymouth Rock.
(That’s P for Place, and not what you think
(of the bodily effluent that leaves a bad stink))

I’ll grow where I’m planted,
Even when trans-Atlantic-ed.