A poem about Blackpool and homesickness

Photo by Luke Ellis-Craven on Unsplash

I wish I kept my accent,
that words flowed over my mouth.
That my tongue still tasted
like butter and gravy.

I wish that I kept my accent.
That I had something that
belonged to the place,
where I was born.

I wish that my roots
ran so deep through my flesh
that my voice couldn’t help but reflect,
where I come from.

I wish that when I talked
I could hear the seaside,
see the Blackpool lights.
Taste the chips from my hometown.

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