And I realise then that there is no word for me, 

An unrequested form,

A playground of semi-detached bay windows, 

Aspiring middle class-ness chugging along quite nicely,  

Nicely from the outside,

But within these semi-detached bay windows

We ripped ourselves to shreds.

I’ve shared winters with the people 

You say I am not like

Where heat is too expensive to pass lips;

Where holidays are spent sweating into plastic job centre chairs, 

Where sleep is forbidden by hunger.

Wondering,

if this is how those kids on the telly feel 

Watching, 

a nation galvanise sentiment against 

people like me, 

And people 

like you.

But you’re right, 
As you sit across from me, 
like you’ve won a victory
in the fiercely contested battleground 
of our Britain since 1945 seminar,

My parents did go to university.

I am not working class, 

I am of benefits Britain, 

The hand ‘up’ to your hand out, 

And there is no word for me.