Grandpa

this is my 6th poem ive ever wrote so pleaze excuse any grammatical errors, thank you.

Grandpa had been sick for two months, all I remember was his skin covered in lumps. “God will sort me out,” he said, “just keep me watered, clean, and fed.” Only, that wasn’t the case, when the lumps reached his face, and in place of a bed, he had a stretcher instead.

Grandpa had been holding his cross for two weeks, all I remember was his prayers before he sleeps, keeping a smile on his lips, more than Grandma when she knits. His cross reminded me of something red, plastered on the wall against the hospital bed. “First Aid Kit,” the writing said — if we couldn’t use these, we’d probably be dead. And doctors wheeled him out, with machines and wires; whirrs and beeps kept him awake, tired.

Grandpa had been in surgery for two hours. When he came out, we gave him cards and flowers. “Thank God,” he said, “that I’m alive, not dead.” But I sat and wondered, who deserved the praise more the God in Grandpa’s head, or the surgeon who lay exhausted on the floor?

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