12:
Five Forty Five on
Results day
In trouble at home
Scuffed my shoes and
Dad gets home from work.
He hears the foul news
‘Jack, you need to learn boy;
You are the sum of your days’
I shut up,
Dyscalculia
I can’t count,
All those stupid
Burnt plastic miles
Behind me
I grow a little
‘Dad,
I’ve failed at maths’
