My hands hurt.

Anxiety presses pins, needles, nails

Into my knuckles

The pads of my fingers

And my thumb.

“Don’t press so hard.

It’s bound to hurt,” they say, “gripping like that,”

but then they add

“You have half an hour to finish,” and wonder

Why I stress so.

The words are easy.

If I could type them on a keyboard,

Neat and bright

In a well presented paper, I could have ended this

An hour ago.

“You don’t complain

When it’s maths,” they say sadly, but

Maths is beautiful

And I can ignore the pain to get

Those numbers formed.

Meanwhile, they want

Three sentences that explain some words

I have understood

For ever and a day, and you must understand

My hand is numb.

(I was writing to a prompt: “If I waited till I felt like writing, I’d never write at all!” and was inspired by my autistic grandson who finds handwriting a trial.)