Kelly-Anne pulls apart an almond croissant,
hands me one half
though I’ve a muffin of my own –
blueberries oozing from its crusty lid.
So, she says.
Yeah, I say.
I’m sorry, she says.
I’m sorry, I say.
He’s the one who should be sorry, she says,
pushing my hair back from my face.
Did he do that? Did he?
Pastry drifts into my lap.
Kelly-Anne gently brushes the crumbs away
from my skirt.
Her fingers are swollen.
Where are you living? she asks.
I’m fine, I say.
I was worried, she says. I came to find you.
I almost went back to Tottenham.
He’d have killed you, I say.
I don’t know whether or not
I’m being dramatic.
I might mean it.
When are you due?
I finally glance at her tummy.
Next week.
I’m terrified.
Do you know how big a baby’s head is?
I lay my hand on her bump.
The baby swims around
inside her like a
jellyfish,
turning the surface of her tummy
into moving mounds.
How did it get there? I find myself saying.
Kelly-Anne grins,
doesn’t understand the question.
But I am thinking of my father.
How did something as beautiful as a baby
happen without anyone getting hurt?
You only legged it once your kid was at risk, I say.
I am trying to explain how she let me down.
She touches my chin. I have a place. Come with me.