A Public Service Poem

Before you puff your chest and shout

about who *really* “belongs,”

let’s take a moment, darling,

to correct a few… historical wrongs.

Unless your family tree

sprouted from the first caretakers of this land,

you’re basically a long‑term houseguest

still tracking dirt in from another strand.

Some of y’all arrived on ships

and immediately started redecorating,

acting like the place was empty

and the welcome sign was waiting.

Some showed up clutching passports,

some stumbled in with trauma,

some wandered off a boat and said,

“Yep. This is mine now. Call me *Big Papa*.”

Meanwhile, Native folks are watching

with the patience of saints and the side‑eye of legends,

thinking, “Funny how the guests

keep trying to run the residence.”

So next time someone hollers,

“Go back where you came from!” with pride,

remind them that for most of us,

that trip would require a plane, a boat,

and a very awkward guide.

Because this land had hosts already—

hosts with culture, language, and lore.

Everyone else?

We’re basically the people who showed up late

and still asked what’s for dinner.

So breathe, sugar.

Be humble.

Be kind.

And remember this truth with a grin:

**We’re all immigrants here—

except the people who actually let us in.**