See that social worker standing over there ,
She has written a report about me .
She has written that I live in squalor and I have a lot of clutter,
That social worker doesn’t know me at all.
She doesn’t know that I suffered a trauma when I was small.
She doesn’t know that I didn’t have a mum and dad ,
She doesn’t know that I was raised by my grand mother and grandad,
She doesn’t know that my grandad was violent and my cries were silent,
She doesn’t know that my grandfather physically and mentally abuses me ,
He calls me a bastard child ,he says that I am vile ,
A social worker comes to see me but poppa does all the talking
My grandmother sits there whimpering like a wounded dog ,
She still manages to give me a hug.
My teacher canes me until my fingers are blistered and sore,
My Spirit is broken , my emotions are raw,
Where I live there are two young men ,
They don’t care that I am only ten ,
They knock me over and drag me ,
They always ignore my screams,
I can still see them in my dreams ,
Now tell me social worker ,
Do I matter or do you just see my squalor and my clutter.? by Dorothy Maude.