Immigrant Son

Immigrant Son

A discarded paper-man
hewn of parchment ragged
and battle torn
tired, edges worn bare
I lie folded at your door-step
with my weary fists newly unclenched
I offer fresh palms broad
that we may join our hands
as one
that I may love and be loved
as your own, a child of the world
that I may share in your adversity
and share with you my prosperity
a place to call my own
a home
where a paper-man can be made whole
not merely of flesh and bone
but
as an immigrant son

This was created in response to 52-Pick-up challenge at Print Sense Photography blog, http://printsensephotography.com/52-pick-up/