Happy birthday to me
I’m finally 35
I figure it’s time
To write my
campaign speech

“Like it or not
this is your country
Your garden
Your rows of
Forget me knots

But you forgot
You don’t get to pick
The assholes in your
Family, the racist uncles
the Debbies, the Karens
The Dicks. The Mr. Blisters
At least you got a
Thanksgiving. You don’t get

to pick which genes make
up your physiology. Or your
Astrology or which planet
Weighs on your psychology
These stars fell at your feet,
pick ‘em up dammit. You

don’t have to like her
she’s still your baby.
Your weeds, and shadows
and brown leaf trees. Your
politicians and preachers
And teachers and police.

Some weeds are wildflowers
M.L. King Jr. was a womanizer

The monarchs that fly
south for the winter,
They’re not yours
But your visitors,
be good house keepers

From capital hill
To the gutters
It’s still your streets
to keep clean

Quit fightin’ ‘bout
Gravity, we’ve
Already landed!
Take it or leave it
It’ll still be here
When you get
The message.

I’ll admit it, shit’s grim
Our inheritance looks
Shotty when compared
To Hollywood plots,
But don’t discredit
The wealth that it takes
To build dreams and
give them a screen.
Everything you see is yours
-Simba’s father, said to him

It’s yours, do you hear me?”

—Your president, sincerely.