Some Place To Call Ancestral

I had my share of it, they say,
and now they don’t want me here.

One share, two shares, five shares, more:
who do you think you are, they say?

What do you think you are owed? 
Nothing, I say. All I want

is my name and a scrap of corner light
from my old bedroom. Some place

to call ancestral. I’m not
to the manor born but once

I squalled and squealed here
and I believe that still echoes.

I don’t believe this is about
what I’m owed or even about

who owes, you see. 
This is about honoring the part of me

that should have staked my claim
when I still trusted you.

I didn’t think I’d even
need to ask and now we are here,

or rather I’m here and you
are there with your stake and claim,

your chains and surveyor’s transit.
Mine, you say, as you set up 

on my stone. I don’t even want
that, I say. It’s dark here

and a little light
from the family window

would be enough for me.
Nothing more tangible.

Nothing that you need 
to surrender.