Sometimes events happen that none of us should let go without question. In this instance it’s The Windrush Generation and my question, “Why not us”?
My Bajun Papa
They came from all over
To help us re-build
Our houses, our roadworks,
And jobs needed filled
They gave of their blood
their sweat and their tears
Their home they called Britain
for most of their years
Yet sadly they’ve found out
Through no fault of their own
This country they’ve lived in
Is no longer their home.
How could this have happened
I hear you all ask,
Whoever’s responsible
Must be taken to task.
Yet the day’s they go by
And still nothing is clear
Are they allowed to reside….
In their Country so dear,
When our friends and our Neighbours
Are treated this way
We must pile on the pressure
To help them to stay.
My Papa was Bajun
He called Britain his home
A passport was given
So freely he’d roam
Not once was it questioned
This travel he did
For his Great British bosses
He did as was bid
At customs they’d nod
And then wave him through
The might of his passport
All covered in Blue
Has this horror touched us,
And what is our plight,
So far of course not,
but then….we are white!!
By Helen Armet
24 April 2018