I have always believed in destiny.

Not the fairytale kind where everything works out because it is meant to. I mean the harder version. The kind that drags you through places you would never choose, then drops you somewhere unfamiliar and expects you to stand up and carry on.

Fate pulled me through a Jamaican prison and dropped me back onto the streets of Notting Hill.

I stood up.

I stayed standing.

From Jamaica to Notting Hill

For more than twenty years I kept my head straight.

I took courses.
I managed bands.
I wrote books.
I worked Portobello Road.
I paid my dues.

I told myself that was the deal.

You do the time.
You learn the lesson.
Life lets you move on.

America does not work like that.

The Twenty Year Illusion

For years I carried a date around in my head.

Twenty years since the day I was deported from the United States. I treated it like a finish line. I convinced myself that once the clock ticked over, the system would quietly reset. That the red flag next to my name would fade out.

I started to picture Memphis.

Graceland.

Not as a tourist ticking boxes, but as a way of closing a circle. Paying respect. Standing at the source.

It mattered more than a holiday. It felt necessary.

My sister has always dreamed of going too. Memphis lives in her head as a someday place. I started thinking that maybe, one day, I would go with her. Two kids from Warrington walking through those gates together, laughing at the madness of it all.

Today is Elvis Presley’s birthday.

That thought sits heavy.

The American Immigration Wall

So I started digging.

The truth came back dry and colourless.

That twenty year ban I waited out was only the beginning.

My deportation was for a drug conviction. In American immigration terms, that does not expire. It does not soften with time. It does not care who you become.

I am not a writer to them.
I am not a father.
I am not a man who kept his nose clean for two decades.

On paper, I am permanently inadmissible to the United States.

I can stack up years of honest work and personal change. It means nothing to the Department of Homeland Security. The file does not update itself.

Then I turn on the news.

Trump is back in the chair.
The language is sharper.
The borders feel tighter.

Keeping people out has become the message again.

I watch it unfold and feel the chill.

Why would they make an exception for an ageing ex-con from West London?

ESTA, Waivers, and Reality

I cannot just book a ticket and chance it.

If I fly on an ESTA, they will stop me at JFK and send me straight back to Heathrow before I have time to get my bearings. The door is locked.

Years ago, I would have tried to force it. I always did.

Now I look at what it actually takes.

A special waiver.
Old deportation files dragged out of storage.
Police certificates to prove a life I already know I have lived.
An interview at the US Embassy in Nine Elms, asking forgiveness from a system that rarely offers it.

Months of waiting.
A lot of money.
Energy I am not sure I want to give away.

I could buy a bunch of CD's  for that.
Or a few decent pints.

Memphis as a Dream

I sit and listen to the bolloks coming out of Washington.

A simple question lands.

Can I be bothered?

Maybe Memphis is better left as a shared dream between me and my sister. Something we talk about and laugh about. Something we keep alive without chasing it into a brick wall.

Prison taught me how to choose my battles. Care taught me the same thing. You do not let the past run your life, but you also do not keep smashing yourself against something that refuses to move.

Elvis sang If I Can Dream.

I still can.

Today, on his birthday, that feels enough.

For now.

Watch This Space

Or don’t.

I am still deciding.

Author note:
This piece sits alongside my writing on survival, identity, and the long shadow of past convictions. If you are interested in stories about prison, deportation, resilience, and working-class life told without polish or pity, explore more at www.tommykennedyiv.com.