Dear Rich People,

Extensive damage is seen to the Grenfell Tower block which was destroyed in a disastrous fire, in north Kensington, West London

A poem I wrote in reaction to the Grenfell Tower fire.

How nice it must be for you to sit high upon your thrones and watch the dusts on your feet whither away.

How nice it must be to dictate the aesthetics of a landscape simply out of pure distaste.

How nice it must be to colonise a town, raise its “standards” to meet YOUR standards but forget that it is the American Dream most can’t reach.

Oh it is not your fault that others are at a disadvantage,

It is not your fault that you were blessed with a platform three inches higher than the rest, no.

But look at what you have done!

Look at how the decision made by the majority of your population to relocate in order to save money has robbed those who don’t have any.

Look at how your pop-up cafes with distillery fonts on its glass panels wipe out the local business that sold hair products not seen on high-street shelves like dead bugs on your Audi Q7 car window.

Look at how you attempted to dress up the ugly beauty of our Grenfell pageant Queen with your cheap Cladding fashion.

On her own she thrived in culture and love. She thrived in a community high above.

But thanks to your wealthy, western standards of beauty,

You deemed her ugly and impoverish.

You looked high up at her and cut her down so far deep that she was the stamped out beauty under your giant feet.

You did that!

You did not apologise, you did not attempt to save her,

Instead you watched her burn from the inside of your white picket-fenced house on every screened gadget that existed within your space.

You murmered sympathy desensitised by your wealth:

“Oh no, how sad!”

“Poor them”

Yes indeed! POOR THEM!

Poor them with 7 family members in a 3-bedroom flat.

Poor them who were promised safety by new reconstruction but were murdered by that.

Poor them for being poor, to not be able to afford the new life you have reconstructed into a space they once called home but thank you for your sincerity that deep down you know is guilt.

Watch the fireworks and sweep up the ashes,

Now the only hard thing to do now is relocate or stay?

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