Gift

On Christmas Eve,
I get the first
off-peak train
to my parents.

Sit opposite
another yuppie
on a pilgrimage
for mince pies
and nostalgia.

As she Googles
the top ten tips for
the best brandy butter,
I slip my hand
in her bag for life.

Take out the top
present, pop it
in my rucksack.

Spend the rest of the trip
watching wetlands wash
into watercolour.

In my head, I hear
her lungs rattle
as she rustles
through the bag
a sixth time.

Picture her dad’s
o-shaped lips:
“the real gift is
that you came.”

Feel guilty pudding
sitting heavy in the pit
of her sofa-belly
all afternoon.

As we pull
into Barnham
I hoist my rucksack
on one shoulder,
brush past
paper close.

“Sorry.”
“You’re alright.”

Alighting, I walk
to the platform bin,
drop the gift in.

Stare at the shrinking
yellow windows,
wonder if
she’s watching.

Taken from the anthology Alter Egos, published 2019 on Bad Betty Press.