How dare you move in to my neighbourhood! Someone might see. 

I suppose you’ll want to stay, rise up and take over. What use are you? You don’t belong here among the elite, the planned, the cultivated community.

     I remember my mother’s words, “a scourge on the earth, to be purged. Go to the root of the problem and eradicate it there.” Call me biased, tyrannical. Call me a bigot. It’s what I learned. It’s what I know.

     Yes, I’m profiling you. My system will dominate and dispose of you.

     What do you want? Don’t tell me Justice. The world’s on fire with rebellion and you are a part of it.

      Lamb’s-quarters, you’re just a weed. You and others like you are taking over the world.  I want to control you before you organize and demand your rights. 

     I distrust you; a different look, dark green leaves like jagged shields, bundles of seeds waiting to multiply, not equal to members of my garden society. You hang around the edge, hiding behind others, fiercely propagating, ready to invade. You disrespect the plant hierarchy...

    Histories are complicated. Who had the power to name you a weed, I wonder?

     “...In the war against weeds you need to be vigilant, or else they will quickly claim victory...”  Burpee.

     On the other hand, Dimitri Nasrallah said, “The true value of a word comes from its accumulated usage, its baggage, not simply its utterance.”

     Someone suggested I make friends with you, respect you, that you’re more complex, better than other greens.

     Or my neighbour, originally from Germany said, as I was down on one knee trying to destroy you with a Roundup taser, “That’s not an enemy. We survived on them after the war when there was no food. It has a purpose, deserves to live.”

     Do you live in fear Lamb’s-quarters? Do you feel undervalued, hurt, persecuted? When you see me wearing gloves and carrying a trowel in my holster are you outraged?

      I’m pulling you out, pushing you down, piling you up. Your stems link together in protest. Your seed breaks off and plants everywhere.

      I’m ready to discard.  

     You... demand a new conversation.

Footnotes:

Ellis, Barbara W., Editor. Burpee Complete Gardener, 1995.

Nasralla, Dimitri. “Dancing Bear,” The Walrus, July/Aug 2020