I speak.
I know the words, the intention, the message I so desperately…
But what do you hear?
You hear a place: Not a nice place.
You see people: Poor, dirty, uneducated people?
I flex the working-class muscle that’s grown over my inherited chip,
It’s pure bravado.

But when I hear that song from another mouth, I know I’m home.
I know my place.
And when you sing a different tune, I’m confused:
Who are you now? Where?
I smugly suppose you’re lost.

When I ask (not arsk)
People laff (not la-rrrf)
They like my song, wish they had one too,
Maybe you’re the good person, you’re striving to be.
Maybe I’m wrong…
Maybe you’re not…
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It’s what I’ve got.
It’s my voice,
And I sing a lot

I’m sorry, song, for every time I apologised for you.
For every time he did it, I corrected my love’s done it.
Because this is who I am
And who we are.

I have no choice.

I can only hope they’ll hear the power in my voice.

At the end of the day, I'm a Brummie. Karen Elizabeth Miller. @writingkaren. Accent

If you liked this read:
Down the pub c.1985
Railway Bridge: Day and Night
Rhythm Is Gonna Get You