I now live in a country, which officially does not have my interests at heart. The government has decided to use my presence here in the UK as a means to negotiate a better ‘deal’. Let’s get it straight: from today I’m a little chunk of bargaining fodder, not a person made of flesh and bone, not a life entrenched in the tapestry of this country for over thirty-two years.

Yesterday I called this country ‘home’. ‘Home’ is about respect, about belonging, about feeling safe and valued, about being one hundred per cent welcome. But I don’t feel welcome anymore. I’ve been spat in the eye, stabbed in the back, lied to and lied about.

Thanks for asking (no one ever asks), but no, I don’t feel safe or valued anymore. I won’t be able to call this country ‘home’ again. It’s a broken home and it’s breaking my heart. From today, it’s just a place I live in. I’m only passing through.

I’m a foreign tree in the garden of England, my roots uprooted, my branches broken, my leaves dying.