Things I don’t hear in my local bar:
“go back where you came from,”
to someone who was born in the next street.
“immigrants are stealing our jobs,”
from a bloke who retired 10 years ago.
I don’t sit opposite a man in a bunnet on the train,
pondering whether he’s a Brexiter or Remainer,
hoping he doesn’t catch my eye, open his mouth
and spew out racist garbage as he repeats headlines
read in the Daily Mail and other trashy tabloids.
As I wander the aisles of the supermercado,
I don’t overhear people moaning to cronies,
“I’m tired hearing about Black Lives Matter,”
from folk who will never be stopped by the police,
unless it’s to help them across the street.
I never hear any of these things in Portugal.
There are no casual racists spouting their filth.
Not in my bubble anyway … a bubble where
my Portuguese isn’t of a good enough standard
to even know if there were.
I exist in an illusionary utopia.
