FINAL DESTINATION
Courtney Conrad
I remember learning how to write my name
while crossing the Atlantic on my mother’s passport.
The British accent rooting itself without a naturalisation certificate.
I am one year shy of retirement when the six o’clock news notifies me
of the Home Office’s shredder feeding on my landing card.
Two weeks later, thick envelopes make my letterbox retch—
eviction notices, NHS bills, and deportation warnings.
At work, my Line Manager leads two officers toward me,
one scoffs ‘illegal’ like it’s my first name.
The other announces you are no longer allowed
to work and live in this country. “Mi wuk yah thirty years.
Pay mi taxes. Not even a bokkle of wata mi tief.”
This is the first time my colleagues hear me
speak Patois. Outside the office, breathless
my body lowers like a flag.
Paperwork muffles my family’s wails.
The state calls me cargo and loads me onto a plane.
Within hours, I arrive in Jamaica, soil hungry.
The cemetery requires no papers for my residency.