Doctor said eight thirty one,
but you didn’t.
Admitted on nine two,
waited for seven,
but we left as we were a three.

Rested for forty eight,
then four ticked past.
Contractions every three,
for fifty or more.
Hospital at five,
but only a four.
So we waited.

Two, six.
Four, seven.
Eight, nine and a half.
Push, breathe, push,
for thirty five;
then,
there you were.

Our baby boy.

Skin to skin for golden sixty.
Then off to a bath
and the rest of your life.

Only eight point one and twenty for a blink,
but forever our first.

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