Black and grey daisy tattoo with outlined petals and a stippled centre, placed on the outer lower leg.

Daisy tattoo on a lower leg

Botanical · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

A single daisy-style flower with a ring of long, outlined petals radiating from a dotted centre. The petals are shaded with fine grey lines and the centre is built from stippling, which gives it a soft, textured look. It sits alone in the middle of a pale lower leg against a shiny backdrop.

Botanical Dotwork Calf Daisy Flower Petal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The slag heap behind Cutter Row had been grey for as long as anyone could remember, so when the first daisy came up through the cinders in March, my mum made me walk up and look at it before she would believe it. I was eleven and sulky about the walk. It was a small white thing with its petals folded back, as if it was tired of being stared at, and the middle of it looked like someone had pressed coal dust into it with a thumb.

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Dad said it would be dead by the weekend. He said nothing decent grew on the tip because it had been smouldering underneath for thirty years and the heat had cooked every root out of the ground. He had worked the face at Carnddu Number Four until the pit shut, and after that he worked the allotment and would not look up the hill at all. Mum took a jam jar up there every morning anyway and watered the thing with the water she was supposed to be saving for the kettle.

By June there were eleven daisies. By the winter of the strike, when the men stood at the gate with their flasks and nobody had wages, there were more than anyone could count, and Dad stopped pretending he had not noticed. He came up one Sunday with a trowel he had not touched since the colliery, dug a row along the bottom of the heap where the stones gave way to clay, and said nothing about it at all.

I still have that jam jar. It sits on my windowsill in a city with no slag and no pit, and every spring I put one daisy in it, the way Mum showed me, with the stalk cut on the slant so it drinks properly. Dad's row is still up there. Nobody cuts it back. The heap has gone green on top, and in the middle of all that green, where the stones are still warm, the flowers come up pale and stubborn and dusted black at the heart.