If I Were President

If I were president

I would not speak in soundbites.

I would speak in pauses.

I would let silence finish its sentence

before I rushed to sound smart.

If I were president

the first thing I’d do

is sit at the same table

as the people who don’t trust me

and not try to earn it—

just listen long enough

for my defenses to get bored and leave.

If I were president

poverty would not be a “policy issue.”

It would be a failure we name out loud

without blame-shifting,

without pretending hunger is a moral flaw

or homelessness a lack of hustle.

If I were president

no child would need to be brave

before they are safe.

No elder would have to choose

between medicine and dignity.

No worker would be told

they are replaceable

by the same system that depends on them.

If I were president

truth wouldn’t belong to one side.

It wouldn’t wear party colors.

It would be heavy, inconvenient,

and shared—

because real truth always costs something

and asks everyone to participate.

If I were president

war would never be the first answer,

and rarely the second.

I would ask what we failed to hear

before we reached for force,

and who profits every time

we call violence “necessary.”

If I were president

I would stop confusing power with domination.

Leadership with control.

Strength with the inability to cry.

If I were president

I would tell the country:

we are not broken beyond repair—

but we are overdue for accountability,

for grief,

for admitting we’ve been surviving

instead of living.

If I were president

the measure of success

would not be the stock market

but how many people slept without fear.

How many voices stopped whispering.

How many hands unclenched.

If I were president

I would remind us daily:

a nation is not great

because it is loud,

or armed,

or wealthy—

but because it learns,

because it changes,

because it refuses to abandon

its most vulnerable

when it gets uncomfortable.

And if I were president—

I would never let you forget

that leadership does not live in one office,

one person,

one title.

It lives in how we treat each other

when no one is watching.

(Manifesto cut)

If I were president

I wouldn’t promise greatness—

I’d promise honesty.

I would tell the truth

even when it costs votes,

even when it makes us uncomfortable,

especially when it asks us to change.

If I were president

hunger would be urgent,

healthcare would be human,

and housing would be a right—

not a reward for obedience.

If I were president

no one would have to perform pain

to be believed.

If I were president

power would mean protection,

not permission to harm.

Leadership would mean responsibility,

not immunity.

If I were president

truth would not belong to one party.

Dignity would not be negotiable.

Silence would not be mistaken for peace.

If I were president

we would stop calling cruelty “policy”

and fear “security.”

If I were president

I would remind us:

a nation is not strong

because it dominates—

but because it cares,

because it repairs,

because it refuses to forget

who it was built for.

And if I were president

I would say this clearly:

This country does not need saving.

It needs remembering.

(Spoken-Word Cut)

If I were president—

I’d lower my voice.

Not because I’m unsure,

but because listening requires space.

(beat)

If I were president

I wouldn’t talk at the people.

I’d stand with them.

Long enough

for the masks to get tired

and fall.

(beat)

If I were president

hunger wouldn’t wait for a committee.

Healthcare wouldn’t come with fine print.

Housing wouldn’t be something you earn

by breaking your back

for a system that forgets your name.

(pause)

If I were president

no one would have to bleed in public

to prove they’re hurting.

(beat)

If I were president

power would not mean distance.

It would mean accountability.

It would mean saying

“I was wrong”

out loud

and meaning it.

(longer pause)

If I were president

we would stop calling fear “protection.”

Stop calling violence “order.”

Stop calling silence “peace.”

(beat)

If I were president

truth wouldn’t lean left or right—

it would stand upright

and ask us all

to come closer.

(pause, softer)

And if I were president

I would remind us—

every single day—

that leadership

is not an office,

not a title,

not a microphone.

It’s how we treat each other

when the cameras are gone.

(quiet)

That’s where the country lives.

(Quiet Cut)

If I were president

I think I’d start with admitting

I don’t know everything.

I would let the weight of that be visible—

not as weakness,

but as respect

for how complex people are

and how much we’ve carried.

If I were president

I would notice the tiredness first.

The kind that doesn’t show up in statistics.

The kind that lives in shoulders,

in unanswered emails,

in people doing their best

with less than enough.

If I were president

I would believe people

without asking them to prove

they’re worthy of care.

I would remember that most harm

comes from being unheard

for too long.

If I were president

I would move slower.

Not to stall—

but to make sure we don’t trample

what’s already fragile.

I would choose repair

over punishment,

care over control,

truth over comfort.

If I were president

I would stop pretending

we can heal without grieving,

or change without telling the truth

about what hurt us.

And if I were president

I would keep reminding myself—

quietly, often—

that the goal was never power.

It was trust.

It was safety.

It was making room

for people to breathe again.

If I were president

I would hope

that when I left,

things felt a little less heavy—

not because everything was fixed,

but because no one felt alone

inside it.

— Flower InBloom