Immigration

My mother’s accent, Shaped by lands she left behind, Makes you wrinkle your nose, Yet she remains gentle and kind. Balancing a second language, In her eyes hope gleams, Though her words may sound a little strange, She hopes to fulfill the American dream. Leaving her family behind, She raises her own family, In hopes they have better lives, Without the help of a single friend. “Racism doesn’t exist anymore,” Yet the word “deportation” looms, She hears lawmakers preach it everywhere, And fear slowly creeps into her room