A TRIBUTE TO HENRIETTA LACKS

HeLa cell line, used to test cancerous cells (Discovery Place Science Museum)

Was I the beginning of something horrible? 

My insides so twisted and red, burning for help.

I’m not thinking about the tumor. 

I’m thinking about the cells inside that discuss my shrinking coils and tanning skin.

I’m thinking about the kids who needed me to show them what it means to be a leader.

What is a leader?

Is it having power, having the guts inside (perfectly placed), not bleeding red, not bleeding—

Is it having the strength to know what you deserve?

What did I deserve?

The tarnished lies? Yes. Beat my skin so black and bruised, whisper it pretty lies that only you can see through. 

Come to me as help, white coat so pure, and leave me as hell.

Walk away, pupils so dilated they look black under the sun.

And wouldn’t that be hell? To be black, blacker under the sun, blackest in the dark.

It surely was what I deserved, to be a black woman in America, too weak to stop the blood, 

keep on walking (don’t crouch), stay long enough to whisper to my daughters, 

“Mommy will be alright.” 

I was never just tired. I was bruised, from inside out, that same place where their life started would be the place that mine ended,  and isn’t that funny?

Sure, laugh now about the twangs of our voices, the spices of our chicken, the cloaks of our skin,

because isn’t that funny?

That they, coats too white and skin so pale, can find joy

in a type of hell like me?