I didn’t go to the session planning to write poetry. I went because one of my kiddos was there at the project, and an adult had to be in the building. So I went. To sit in a room for an hour.

There were twelve, maybe fifteen of us around a table. Cuppas. A pile of quilting materials heaped in the middle – fabric, thread, sewing kits, colours and textures stacked high. Foster carers, adopters, kinship carers, special guardians, connected persons carers. All of us there because we’d chosen, in one way or another, to stand in the gap for a child who needed someone to.