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NOT ONE OF US | DeMarcus Burke
I took her car after orgo—
my hands still reeking of ethanol and effort—
backpack sagging,
lab coat folded like a question.
In the hallway of her rehab wing,
the air smelled like soup
and the kind of sterile loneliness
you can’t mop up with bleach.
She sat upright,
TV glowing with trivia we didn’t care about.
I was ready to share a test win—
but she beat me to it.
“I love you,” she said.
“You’re smart. You and your girl gonna be doctors.
But not for me.
Not one of us. I need an Indian. A White. An Asian.
Not Black.”
It didn’t sting—
not right away.
It settled slow,
like dust in water
that never clears.
I nodded.
Refilled her cup.
Pulled the blanket higher
like I wasn’t unraveling under it.
Later,
when they trained us to simulate empathy,
I already knew how.
How to fold my voice into safety.
How to take someone’s pain
without flinching.
I wore her judgment
in the lining of my white coat.
Not as shame—
as reminder.
Some rooms
you don’t get invited into.
You just learn to hold the door open
for whoever comes next
DeMarcus Burke is a second-year medical student at the University of Michigan, where he is pursuing the Humanities Path of Excellence. He holds a degree in philosophy from Morehouse College. His creative work draws on themes of family, memory, and the emotional dimensions of caregiving. In 2025, Burke was named a finalist for the Rattle Poetry Prize. His poetry has appeared in Auxocardia and is forthcoming in Rattle. He writes to honor the stories that often go unheard in medicine.