Why does the bounty in front of me feel heavy?
Why do I taste gratitude and guilt with every bite?
Because when I look toward Palestine,
I see a world split in two—
those who have a phone and therefore a voice,
and those who wait in silence,
waiting for borders to open,
waiting for mercy to leak through the cracks.
Those of us who can give
look beyond the line of trucks—
mobile homes waiting,
food waiting,
syringes, clean water, blankets, medicine—
all of it waiting,
not on the people,
but on permission.
A border swollen with everything,
and yet everything stays locked behind greed and politics.
And here we are,
sending what we can
to those with the ability to receive,
while so many others—
the ones without charge, without connection—
stand unseen.
We send crumbs
because crumbs are all that can slip through.
The fucking injustice of it—
a world with full hands
and governments with closed fists.
It feels like watching with eyes wide open
while those in power keep theirs shut.
A theater of dominance and greed,
repeating history’s ugliest lessons.
Marie Antoinette still echoing—
still dismissive—
still untouched by hunger.
“Let them eat cake,”
and they do,
while others swallow dust,
while governments fight for the spoils,
while others are washed away
as if their lives were made of sand.
And so I sit here,
a table waiting,
bread bountiful before me,
and every bite becomes a question,
a confession,
a grief.
How does one enjoy a feast
in a world where so many
are denied a place at the table?
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