He is a half Chinese boy born in England.

And Americans sure have their opinions on everything,

He didn’t think that going to elementary school wearing collared shirts,

And a thick accent intertwined into every word was out of the ordinary.

He was too young to understand what it meant for his mother to 

Come from somewhere far away, 

And the only wind behind her wings as she soared over the ocean,

Were a few hundred dollars, education, a job, then promotions,

Her accent, trained to near perfection over years, formed 

A warm bed of feathers for him to curl up in,

She seemed to belong here,

He seemed to belong here,

So there is a joke that ends with a straight face:

The smooth sound of the word “Coronavirus” 

Like boulders shining in a cold mountain stream,

Smooth from being whittled away by the endless crashing of waves.

So I felt that if I laugh, as their cheeks tilt into a grin,

I will blink, and see pure white feathers falling before my eyes.