I didn’t know when I was little
that what went on at home was a
secret.
I didn’t know I shouldn’t
tell tales to teachers.
Instead I babbled
and a social worker came
to our house
dressed in baggy clothes
and covered in cat hair.
She looked at my bedroom.
Dad had changed the sheets
and hoovered the rug.
She saw the house was tidy,
the fridge full,
and I had no bruises.
She talked to Dad
in a soft voice
and was satisfied:
the shouting
I’d tattled about was normal,
the smacking was hasty and would
stop
now Dad knew the rules.
Keep these buttoned, Dad said
when she left,
pinching my lips between his fingers.
Yes, Daddy.
Good girl, he said, and smiled.
I liked it when he did that,
when he smiled
because of me.