Disability Reform
Disability Reform
They come in suits,
hands clean,
tongues heavy with “reform.”
They do not see the tremor
of a mother’s hand
as she opens the brown envelope.
They do not hear
the silence
after a child is told:
you are too expensive
to educate past nineteen.
This is not care.
This is arithmetic.
This is a ledger
where names are numbers,
needs are noise,
and dignity is
a column to be deleted.
They talk of fairness
while snipping the threads
that held us together—
threads spun from routine,
from rights,
from the quiet heroism
of just getting through the day.
First, they came for the benefits.
Then, the rights.
Now, they come for the story itself—
rewriting it so the disabled child
becomes a burden,
the parent a problem,
and the state
a benevolent blade.
A child must ask permission to move,
to learn,
to breathe freely in a school
where they might be safe.
And what is that,
if not control?
What is that,
if not a polite word
for a polished cage?
They call this compassion.
I call it cruelty in costume.
They call this progress.
I call it punishment with paperwork.
They call it reform.
I call it
a quiet war on worth.
Austerity wears a new dress now.
It smiles on the news.
But behind the glass:
a boy sits by the window,
too old for help,
too young to fall through the cracks.
And he will.
Where is the outcry?
This is not support.
It is surveillance.
This is not protection.
It is pruning.
And you do not empower
by cutting away limbs
that carried the weight
no one else would lift.
Ask yourself, MP:
If this were your child—
their voice small,
their future shrinking
at the hands of a minister’s pen—
would you still vote “aye”?
Would you still smile for the photo
with the party line
pressed like a flower
between your teeth?
History will not forget
who crossed the floor—
but it will not forgive
who looked away.
So speak.
Not as a politician,
but as a person.
Because justice begins
when silence ends.
With hope and urgency,
Aspen Greenwood
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