Look at me and scream in my face, while my son cries at my feet.
He hears everything you yell, yet you never see his feat.
Now look at him and say those things, and see if you could.
Regardless if you look at him or me, he still hears every word.
Yet, all you give him is the fear that he does not belong.
That he’s not welcomed, that his existence is somehow wrong.
You crowd him with your orders, with no kindness, no embrace,
And carve a scar into his joy, in this supposed “safe” place.
His laughter was the ocean’s song, his comfort hard-won peace,
But your voices turned it brittle, and tore it into grief.
Do you know what it takes for him, to even step inside?
How bravery is stitched from pain, and courage won from pride?
You saw a boy who’s different, and chose to push him out.
Not once did you stop to listen, not once erase his doubt.
And I, his mother, standing here, my heart a shield of flame,
Will write his story everywhere, and speak your crew by name.
Because inclusion is not hollow, nor a slogan to be sold.
It is measured in compassion, in the hands we choose to hold.
You failed him when he needed you, and you failed us all today,
But we will rise, we always do and you will hear what we say.
