I was talking to the bump last night; the bump hasn’t got a name
It might be one or t’other, either’s fine
Explaining through your mother how we play the waiting game
How she’s giving of herself to make you mine
Until last night I’d held the bump and didn’t make a sound
Listening with my fingertips for life
Not knowing where to place my hands to form the fold around
The three of us, myself, yourself, the wife
There’s a picture now from in the bump, preserved in black and white
It hasn’t failed as yet to make me smile
The other children know you now and kiss the bump goodnight
Cos we know you’ll only be a bump a while
A poem written over a year ago about what it’s like to be an expectant father. The helplessness of it all. Knowing that your part now is a support role and trying to do that right.
And how it becomes more and more real in time and when the other children know. And pictures and names and kicks.
And talking to the bump.