Lyrical Logic

They are the people in the fields.
Hands blistered, backs bent, sun burning skin
so your strawberries are sweet
and your salad stays cheap.

They are the ones scrubbing hotel rooms —
after your bachelor parties,
your college spring breaks,
your secrets spilled on dirty sheets.

They stand twelve hours on a slaughter line,
blood on boots, bones aching —
so you can toss cheap burgers on your grill
and call it freedom.

They came here chasing that big American lie —
Life, liberty, and a chance to breathe without fear.
And you?
You celebrate when they’re cuffed,
when ICE knocks at dawn,
when mothers disappear from school bus stops.

You call them illegal.
You call them freeloaders.
You say: They don’t pay taxes,
but they do your work.
You say: They steal our jobs,
but you won’t touch the job picking peaches
under July’s cruel sun.

Tell me —
when did the American Dream get so convenient?
So forgetful?
Our ancestors crawled off boats,
claimed land with bullets,
called it theirs,
buried tribes in unmarked graves,
rewrote the books:
“Columbus discovered it,” they said —
and the lie stuck like gum under our shoes.

We stole this land.
We rewrote their language.
We crushed their names.
And we still stand here — chests puffed —
calling someone else the criminal.

Look at me —
How is the past any different than right now?
You want cheap fruit?
Cheap rooms?
Cheap meat?
Then chain them to the fields — but hush their stories.
Lock them up — but savor their sweat.

You teach history —
but only the part where we look like heroes.
The truth is:
We are the monsters in the story.
We are the criminals, cloaked in flags.
And tonight — no badge, no bars, no cuffs
will ever come for us.

So tell me —
how long will we pretend
we’re innocent?
How long will we call them the problem,
while we feast on the labor they bleed to give?

Wake up.
We owe them more than fences and fear.
We owe them truth.
We owe them justice.
We owe them this microphone.