Jeans of Hope

I left behind a pair of jeans.

They didn't really fit.

I have others still.

They won't be missed.

Conversing with a dad deported,

Wife and son untaken,

A family stretched,

Their ties pulled to their limit.

He broadly smiles to share a picture.

He's standing with his son,

7 years old,

A border keeping them apart.

A wall.

A fence.

Drones.

Cameras.

Motion detectors.

Heat detectors.

Armed guards.

Helicopters.

Threats.

Scenes of dystopia relegating

some as worthy,

some more worthy,

most as enemy—hordes of vermin.

He speaks with gushing pride,

Pride for his son,

Pride in providing—

Providing from afar,

Providing through the help of others—

A family moving near his wife and son,

Bearing him a pair of jeans.

The son will know his father cares.

The son will know he still provides.

The son will know he is loved,

The son will wear them proudly,

Enveloped in a pair of jeans sent by a father—

A father deported far away.

Separated by miles

By guards

By concertina wire—

Blades of razor steel that cut the heart.


10/18/2025,
Somewhere in Arizona airspace

©Copyright 2025, Christopher B. Harbin 



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