I care because I do,
It’s true
When you forget,
you can’t walk,
you can’t talk,
your body’s shaking
mind’s quaking
with fear,
year after year,
as you plead to God to let you die
Even when you
Bite me
Fight me
Attack me
Back me into a corner
Call me a cunt
Tell me to fuck off
Because I know it’s terrifying
You’re crying, dying
craving relief
From the pain
But you remain
I am a carer
And I’m Polish
Romanian
Lithuanian
Zimbabwean
Mauritian
Ghanaian
Nigerian
Filipino
Indian
Chinese
it doesn’t matter
Where I’m from
My background
Cos when the horrors abound
I’m there
Even when all I want is to
Crawl in bed,
When your head is swarming
the lies are spinning,
the demons are winning,
And I want to help you, but all I can do is hold your hand
And say it will all be okay
When we both know you’ll never be okay
I am a carer
Even when my back’s breaking,
Head’s aching,
Body’s baking,
After a 12-hour shift where we’re short-staffed
Where I’m pushed to my limits,
Worked to I drop,
Until I flop into bed,
Let me make a confession,
This is a thankless profession,
But you don’t do it to be thanked, right?
But it’d be nice, to have a slice of gratitude,
Let me know I’m doing some good
I love it when you smile
It’s all worthwhile
To see you happy
But happiness and smiles
Don’t pay my bills
Me scraping by on minimum wage
Can you gauge my desperation, my frustration,
As my manager hates,
The relatives can’t wait,
To complain,
As my brain is fried, from
When I helped, never hesitated,
Maybe I’ll leave,
Go somewhere I’m appreciated
I am a carer
As we play chess,
As you raise and I
Call your bluff
And I love our
Sing-alongs,
it’s a long way to Tipperary,
I’ll hug you when it’s scary
As we paint Jackson Pollocks,
I don’t care if they look like bollocks,
As we dance to Dean Martin,
Tuck you in your little wooden bed
And aint that a kick in the head
I am a carer,
Through the bureaucracy
The hypocrisy
Through CQC keeping tally
Of every rule we’ve broken,
It’s unspoken
That we’re the soldiers
Sent to the frontlines
With the generals in their ivory towers
And when will we reap the spoils of war?
Let me say something
To those who know nothing
Wiping arses isn’t the worst part of the job
Not by a long shot
The worse part is seeing you wither, decay,
Day after day,
Not eating, drinking,
I’m thinking, where’s your relief,
As you struggle to breathe,
I want you to die,
Not because I’m cruel or two-face
But cos you’ll be in a better place
I care because I do,
It’s true,
Who cares about me?
Not my corporation
The pen-pushing administration
Paying me minimum wage
Like I’m shit in their shoe
Let me tell you
You wouldn’t have bonuses, BMWS,
You wouldn’t be making 2m a year
If it wasn’t for me
The sweat on my brow
The strength of my back,
My commitment to the cause
I’m not asking for a round of applause,
A simple thank you will do,
Not being treated like I don’t matter,
Like I’m expendable,
Because I know I’m indispensable
Because I know the best way to care for your mum
Your dad,
Your brother,
Your sister,
Your grandma,
Your grandpa
Your friend
Your husband
Your wife
As they fight for their life
I am a carer
I care because I do,
It’s true
But who cares about me?
*Author’s Notes*
I spent a year of my life working in a care home which basically meant I spent 12 hours a day making cups of tea and wiping arses, all for minimum wage. This poem is dedicated to all the amazing carers and healthcare assistants out there.
