Caucasia

Caucasia

Welcome to Caucasia,
a nation bravely sanitized,
where borders are sealed with righteous glue
and history is politely denied.

Here we scrub the map with bleach and prayer,
erase the messy footnotes of arrival,
pretend the boats, the chains, the trains, the trails
were just metaphors
or worse, inconvenient.

In Caucasia, everyone agrees
their ancestors simply appeared,
fully clothed, speaking perfect English,
clutching deeds, flags, and divine approval.

No accents here
only “heritage,”
which is just immigration
that happened long enough ago
to feel entitled.

We celebrate rugged self-reliance,
passed down from great-great-grandparents
who somehow crossed oceans
without crossing oceans,
survived winters without help,
and founded farms on land
that was definitely vacant
because silence is easier than memory.

Ellis Island?
Never heard of her.
The Mayflower?
A cruise.
Forced migration?
Revisionist fiction.

In Caucasia, we pull up ladders
and complain about the view.
We demand purity in a melting pot
and are shocked - shocked! -
that the soup tastes like hypocrisy.

We love freedom fiercely,
as long as it knows its place,
fills out the right forms,
and doesn’t ask
who built the roads,
picked the crops,
mined the ore,
stitched the uniforms,
or died in wars
before being told to “go home.”

“Go back where you came from,” we shout,
standing proudly
on someone else’s bones.

Caucasia dreams of a past
that never existed,
guarded by people
who wouldn’t qualify to enter it.

A country without immigrants
just ghosts with amnesia,
wearing flags like blindfolds,
terrified of mirrors,
and furious that history
keeps knocking at the door
speaking languages
they refuse to learn.

Welcome to Caucasia.
Population:
Everyone who chose to forget how they got here.

--Tom Rodgers 2026