More Than Words
Anonymous
Poetry
They said he was difficult.
Aggressive. Demanding.
“He shouts a lot. You’ll see.”
His name passed in handover like a warning.
I braced myself.
Notes in hand. Heart guarded.
Prepared to stand firm.
Polite. Professional.
But distant.
And then I walked in.
He wasn’t what they said.
He was a father.
A voice in his community.
The one who helped others make sense of systems They didn’t build but had to survive.
Now here he was
In a bed that wasn’t his,
Under a system that didn’t know him,
Trying to be heard
In a language that wasn’t his own.
“Bal yaa Ilaahay garanaya? Maxaa jira?”
(Who here knows God? What’s going on?)
He spoke.
Quick, clipped Somali
Slipping out between tight breaths.
The nurse frowned.
“I don’t know what he needs.”
But I did
Not just because of the words,
But because I’ve seen that look before
In the depth of my father’s eyes.
The way pride fights to stay standing
In a room built to make you feel small.
I knew what wasn’t said.
I recognized the silence
Between needing and asking.
And I listened.
In more than words.
From the tired stares of the staff,
I also saw how hard it was
To pause
To truly see
When the work never stops
And the clock never slows.
Still, they try.
To meet eyes
To soften the sharpness of the system
With whatever they have left.
And in all that noise,
it would’ve been easy to miss him
To let him become
Just another note
In the handover.
But I didn’t
That man they warned me about?
He didn’t exist.
Just a reflection of miscommunication Meeting overworked hands
And a system stretched too thin to look again.
Not every patient needs a translator But all of them needs to be understood.
And sometimes,
Compassion speaks
In the words
They understand.
Studying Medicine at the University of Bristol has changed how I view my shifts as a healthcare support worker.
It has also given me space to reflect creatively on my experiences in both primary and secondary care.
From this, I wrote a poem based on an encounter that showed me how miscommunication can breed hostility.
A patient labelled “aggressive” was unable to express his needs because of language and cultural barriers. This reminded me of many other times when patients from marginalised backgrounds or with communication difficulties were misunderstood. It also made me realise the importance of a first encounter, and how building rapport early can leave a lasting impact. I’ve also come to see that starting fresh in the NHS is a privilege. At first, you notice everything with clear empathy, unclouded by stress or routine. But staying compassionate over time takes real effort, especially in a system that constantly pushes staff to their limits.
Through spoken word, I wanted to hold space for the patient’s perspective, while also recognising the challenges faced by staff.
I want to highlight that real understanding starts with curiosity, humility, and listening beyond words.
I am a woman whose mother tongue isn’t English, and for me, my mother tongue is more than a means of communication — it’s an identity. I’ve lived a life where, to express my pain, confusion, and essence, I had to make them beautiful through poetry and art.
This poem truly made me pause. It speaks to a voice within me that not only had to learn English, but also the unspoken rules that come with a new language and a new country.
It offers grace — it understands and acknowledges fear, pride, exhaustion, and that pure, messy humanness we all carry.
Beautifully done. I’m grateful that you’ve immortalised this interaction in poetry for us to pick apart, taste, chew, and swallow.