Katy Wilson-Scott
The social worker came to visit on a Thursday, no:
a Wednesday. When she knocked on our blue
door, my dad was annoyed, no: my dad was raging.
He smiled at the social worker, no: he swore at
the social worker: bloody hell, not again, we’re in the
middle of our tea. Yes, she said, I can see that, she
moved her eyes to his chest, no: to his stomach, at the
splodge of drying sauce. My dad wiped it with his
callused fingers, no: he left it. Yes: my dad left the
stain untouched, drying, and the social worker
came inside. I was laid on the carpet in the middle
room, eating sausages, beans and mashed potato,
no: I was eating mashed potato, my beans and sausages
were all gone. I was in my school uniform, no: I was
in my pajamas, no: in my Joe Bloggs t-shirt and leggings:
yes. The social worker pushed open the wooden doors
and sat down above me on the old brown sofa: yes. She
smiled, no: she pretended to smile and told me she had
come to help me. I thought she meant to help me eat
my tea, but no: she meant to help me colour in and
do drawings of my favourite food or my favorite house.
My dad turned off the tv so the social worker could ask
me questions. I was watching Rugrats, no: Cow and Chicken,
no: I was watching Sabrina. She wanted me to tell her
about my mam and dad. She called my mam, mum.
I answered her questions, yes: I said yes, no, I don’t
know, I don’t know, no, I don’t know. Mostly, I
don’t know. She asked me to fill in a worksheet
with more questions, yes: she looked around the
room and noticed the bits on the carpet and the
dark stain on the sofa, yes: she noticed my un-ironed
t-shirt, yes: she made a note of the cold and the
Calor Gas heater, ticking in the corner, no: it wasn’t
ticking because it was summer. Yes: it was hot,
and my dad had bought strawberry ice pops and put
them in the freezer for later. She left, yes: she must
have left eventually. She reminded me before she went
who she was and why she had come, no: she just left.
She came back the Tuesday after, no: the Thursday after.
It was unannounced. My dad was raging, yes: my dad
was raging. He told me to be quiet. We turned down the tv,
put the lights out and waited until the knocking stopped.
Katy Wilson-Scott was born in Barrow-in-Furness and now lives in Glasgow, Scotland with her wife. For her day job, she works in an charity supporting women+.
andotherpoems.com 