Your heart is alive; I know this

by the way you change your grandson

gently enough to nurture him and firm

enough to keep him from rolling off your knee.

I know this by the way you speak of your special needs child

who could go into residential care but you do it all

yourself, because you love the bones of him.

I know this because you are ferocious when this

government, yet again, lets your boy down.

You, on the other hand, you who call her ‘scum’,

who turn away as her child stims loudly in a supermarket,

who call yourselves poor as you cash in your Air BNB profits

from the spare cottage on your estate. You who

complain about immigrants and scroungers,

who want everything to stay the same, the way

it’s always been, how it used to be, how it suits you,

you are the walking dead with already rotten hearts.

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