Solid black traditional tattoo of a hand holding a flower sprig with a leafy stem and a flower-patterned cuff, on the inside of a forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hand holding a flower sprig on a forearm

Traditional · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A solid black tattoo shows a hand gripping a stem topped with a cluster of open flowers, with a leafy sprig trailing down beside the wrist and a patterned cuff above the hand. The design uses bold black outlines and flat solid fills, with small white highlights left in the flower petals. It sits on a forearm against a grey concrete background, and the ink is black only.

Traditional Botanical Forearm Hand Flower Stem Leaves Cuff Bracelet

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hold your tea still, pet, and mind the sugar, because the band's only gone out for a fag and I want you listening. Harbour Palais, Margate, the summer of 1951, and the sprung floor so waxed you could see the ceiling lights swimming in it. Dorothy Fenn ran the cloakroom there, a tall girl with a cuff of brass buttons on her wrist that she'd polished till they threw light across the coats.

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The rule at the Palais was simple and nobody wrote it down. A lad who wanted a dance brought a flower to the cloakroom hatch, and Dorothy carried it out to the floor tucked into the crook of her arm like a hymn book. Sweet william from the council beds, a sprig of rosemary for remembering, whatever was going over the wall that week. She'd lift the bloom in her palm for the whole room to see, and that was your answer, yes or no.

Then came Walter Brisk, who had a voice like a wireless left on in another room, and he brought her a bunch so big she had to hold it with both hands. He never came back from the Thursday dance. The boat to Ostend took him, or the drink did, depending on who you asked, and the bunch wilted on the hatch while the band played on. Dorothy didn't throw the stems away. She stood them in a jam jar beside the cloakroom tickets, and every Saturday after she lifted one up to the room and danced with nobody at all, until the whole hall knew it was her turn and not his.