Six Feet

Six feet stuck out
from the maroon quilt
as Abba woke early,
queued for rations.
Amma polished our shoes
combed our hair,
readied us for our miles-long
walk to and from our school.
Six feet was the length
of my room shared with three
as we juggled classes, cooking,
learnt English, and cleaned
dishes, scraping leftovers for later.
Six feet was the driveway that I cleaned every day
unable to believe that I have
my own house, and enough
money to travel home.
Six feet was the distance
from which my wife watched
as my passport and the right accent,
the right clothes, the right papers, even the right “card” got checked.
Six feet is the span of the cell
where I was detained
where I hear the cries of others
who like me wait to belong.
Six feet in the ground
will be mine in the end.