​CAR DOOR

my dad believed

the car door.

that’s the bit

I keep coming back to.

not my finger.

not how much it swelled.

not her in the kitchen afterwards saying

I didn’t know

your hand was there.

my dad believed me.

turned up with one of those

plastic finger splints from Boots

and a bag of chocolate buttons

because apparently

you never get too old

for your dad to bring you chocolate

when you’ve hurt yourself.

Christ, love,

he said.

that must’ve bloody hurt.

yeah,

I said.

my sister didn’t say anything.

she just looked at my hand.

then at me.

then back at my hand.

later she texted

car door?

I saw it.

left it there.

that’s the stupid thing.

you imagine the lies

you tell about something like that

will be complicated.

that you’ll need a whole story.

dates.

details.

something convincing.

I needed two words.

car door.

and my dad,

because he was my dad

and because he trusted me,

never asked again.