Poem from a prem dad. Jeffrey’s Poem By Garrison Keillor When I first saw you, kid, you were tiny and thin And slimy and red and your head was mushed in. I says to your mother, ‘He looks kind of sloppy, And two pounds four ounces ain’t big for a crappie.’ But something about you, the look in your eyes, Said you fully intended to grow to full size. They slapped your backside and let you cry, And I said, ‘We will keep him, at least we shall try.’ Some babies are born in nine months, by the clock. Some babies are born, and they sit up and talk. Some babies are born, and no doctor is there. But some babies come in on a wing and a prayer. Poor little fetus as big as your hand. Poor little fish thrown up on dry land. Who came in late April though he had ‘til July, Too small to live and too precious to die. They slipped you downstairs to the big Neonatal Intensive Care Unit’s computerized cradle And attached you to wires and stuck you with tubes Monitored closely by digital cubes. And thanks to the latest neonatal therapuesis And regular basting with greases from gooses And hot chicken soup intravenously fed You did not fade away, you grew up instead. We’ll always remember the months that you spent With tubes in your head in the oxygen tent And the mask on your face, the wires attached, Sweet little baby who was only half hatched. I’m sure you’ll grow up and mature and extend To six feet six inches and become a tight end, But I’ll always remember each doctor and nurse in The NICU who helped make you a person, The kid who crash landed, who was carried away, Who survived it, this bundle we bring home today
Posted on: Sun, 15 Jun 2014 10:14:03 +0000
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