Saving Kofi

By Tim Beckerley

When you rushed to my pneumonic bedside like an excited girl 
- your 48 year old Ghanaian hands just one day younger than mine -
and beamed "Friday's child, from this moment I call you 'Kofi'"

When my torso was ripped in two to save a damaged heart
and you guarded my recovery with a maternal ferocity;
an English rose by day, a Nepalese lotus blossom by night.

When my kidneys were dying with an hour on the clock,
and your calm voice, my desperate tenuous lifeline,
ignited my flagging spirit: "We'll be with you in ten."

When blessed angels toiled through that long, dazed night
and the kindly doctor greeted me with a morning affirmation:
"You're not supposed to be with us today."

When the weeks of quiet dedication ended and I asked
with a cheeky grin “Are nurses allowed to hug?”
and my saviours and Sisters embraced me like a child.  

And through the pain you eased,
the blood you cleaned, the tears you dried,
and yes, the laughs we shared,
how could I not be eternally grateful?

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Written Word ‘Heart’ poems