Tell me
how you spent nearly every weekend at my house,
but voted for the man who wants me gone.

You sat at my mother’s kitchen table,
ate the food she made with love,
walked through my grandmother’s door,
ate her tamales with a smile
then cast your vote for the man who calls them criminals.

What do you tell the boy who played soccer,
who was nothing but kind,
that you chose a man who hates him for the color of his skin?
What do you tell the girl at the back of the class,
too shy to speak,
her accent thick with the weight of home
that you voted for the man who made her run from her brown,
from her rights?

How do you tell the kids still living in that same town
that you chose a man who is against their future,
against their education,
letting greed set fire to their dreams?

You were supposed to help extinguish them.

You stood beside me, called yourself a friend,
wore the title of an officer of a Hispanic organization,
but still, you voted against our rights.

You saw our parents working.
Our teachers working.
Our friends working.

And yet

You still voted for him.

How will you tell your daughter one day
that you voted for a man who sees her as less?
That if she is assaulted, it’s her fault?
That if someone touched her,
she should have dressed differently?
Spoken less?
Existed quieter?

But you voted for him.

Because our lives were worth less
than the cost of eggs.