It’s November. My poppy is white.
Because I’ve seen the red poppy shredded to mulch at the hands of racists and fascists, pinning the tattered pieces of pretend pride over their bigotry.
Because I’ve seen politicians lay a wreath of red poppies, their faces a mask of pain and solemnity, only for them to hang up their jacket coat when they’re back in the warm, pinned poppy surveying the scene, as they order another bomb dropped in a country that they know we won’t look at.
Because when people attack a decades old TV comedy for portraying the First World War as a ‘farce’ – we should be more ‘proud ‘ of a conflict that slaughtered millions – then we have ignored the poets who lie rotting in France in favour of a narrative that makes us feel ‘better’.
Because if your stated (here quoted verbatim) reason for wearing a…
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