Baby has been in the incubator

for a few hours.

Her skin is beginning

to soften from blue

to pink

and her tiny fingers

twitch.

Baby breathes unaided

but remains wired

into the box

made of plastic

so it doesn’t shatter

like I did

when they said:

‘She has a hole

in her heart.’

At first, I wondered

if I could fix it;

as I fixed my father’s

and her father’s

with love I was taught

to give

instead of want.

Her fierce kick

soon left me

decided.

I would love

Baby Hope

differently.

I would fill her heart,

not fix it;

with compassion

and kisses,

bedtime stories

and every star wishes,

short walks

and long naps,

visits to the hospital

and paddles along the beach,

peaches and pills,

and everything else

she will need to live.

Rather than count

her birthdays.

Rather than breathe

as she blinks

or feel…