Passport Privilege

Some people travel/ like they’re going to Tesco./

Phone half dead./ Toothbrush in the bag./ Passport out for two seconds./ Done./

That’s it./ That’s the whole miracle./

Then I’ve got friends/ who carry their lives/ in a plastic folder/

with the corners bent in,/ with names spelled three different ways,/ with one missing document/ that somehow matters more/ than the fact they are alive./

Bank statement./ Work letter./ Proof of address./ Proof of return./ Proof of savings./ Proof of not being a problem./ Proof of not wanting too much./ Proof of existing/ in the correct format./

It’s sick, really./

A guy at a desk/ can look at a page/ for six seconds/ and decide who gets to move/ and who gets stuck/

and we all act/ like that’s normal./

Like it makes sense./

Like a person is a thing/ you can sort into trays./

Approved./ Denied./ Try again./ Missing information./

Missing information —/ what a phrase./

As if the missing thing/ isn’t rent money./ isn’t time./ isn’t someone’s job./ isn’t a mother getting older/ in another country./ isn’t a kid growing up/ on video calls/ that freeze on the worst part./

And the stupid part is/ some of us get through/ on passport privilege alone./

Not talent./ Not kindness./ Not grit./ Not because we suffered better/ or loved harder/ or worked more./

Just luck./ Just birthplace./ Just the right little book/ in the right little hand./

That’s the whole scam./

You can be smart as hell,/ funny, qualified, exhausted,/ ready to work,/ ready to build a life,/ ready to breathe—/

and some website crashes,/ some office closes early,/ some man says/ you ticked the wrong box,/ some woman behind glass/ won’t even look up,/

and suddenly your future/ is “under review.”/

Under review./ Jesus./

As if a whole human life/ is a parking ticket./

As if hunger can wait politely./ As if love can be rescheduled./ As if lungs/ give a shit about borders./

And yeah, it makes me angry./

Because I’ve walked through airports/ half hungover,/ smelling like bad sleep/ and deodorant,/ with no plan worth respecting,/

and nobody asked me/ to explain myself./

Nobody asked for my pain/ in PDF form./ Nobody asked me/ to prove I’d come back./ Nobody asked if I was worthy/ of the fucking air/ on the other side./

But my friends —/ my friends get measured./

Again and again./ By paper./ By stamps./ By silence./ By people whose whole job/ is saying/ not yet./

Not yet/ can ruin a year./

Not yet/ can kill a job./ a chance./ a marriage./ a goodbye./ a life someone was/ just starting to believe in./

That’s what gets me./

Not the border itself./ The worship of paper./

The way a document/ can outrank a body./ The way a printed page/ can matter more/ than need./ than skill./ than grief./ than love./

It’s absurd./ It’s cruel./ It’s boring in the most evil way./

No flames./ No sirens./ Just forms./ Queues./ Hold music./ A small box marked/ incomplete./

And somehow/ that tiny box/ gets to decide/

who gets to leave,/ who gets to stay,/ who gets to work,/ who gets to start over,/

who gets treated/ like a person,/

and who gets told,/ with a straight face,/

to come back/ with better paper./