I remember those old stories:
Concrete hardcourts in Compton
Beaded box-braided sisters.
A proud father-coach

I grew up there,
Neither in Compton nor in tennis,
But there, where the girls went far,
Melbourne to London and Paris to Corona Park

The Black girls fly;
Backspins and backhands of Black hands,
That look like mine,
And my sisters’, here and lost

And the youngest of five,
Slammed for grandstanding,
For audaciously Grand Slamming
For standing at all, remains tall

Thank you
Tremendously
Continually
The Black girls fly