Black line hibiscus flower tattoo on the lower abdomen above a black and red tribal band tattoo on the upper thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hibiscus and tribal tattoos on hip and abdomen

Botanical · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A bare midriff and upper thigh are shown, with a black outline hibiscus flower on the lower abdomen and a larger tribal-style band across the hip and thigh. The thigh tattoo uses bold black linework and shading with red fills, and the flower is drawn in fine black lines with some shading. A white cloth is draped over the thigh and a hand rests on the hip, with a further tattoo partly visible at the right edge.

Botanical Thigh Other Hibiscus Flower Tribal pattern Abdomen

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hibiscus on Ward 7 had been sitting on the windowsill since March, a pot of glossy leaves that nobody watered except me. Night shift on a ward is quiet in a particular way. The drip pumps click every few minutes like a slow metronome, and I learned early to listen for the one that stops clicking. Mrs Adeyemi in bed four had asked me to keep the plant alive. Her son had brought it in from Leeds, a cutting from a bush his late aunt grew in a yard full of rubbish bins.

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At two in the morning the buds began to split. I didn't believe it at first. Everyone knows a hibiscus flower lasts a day and then drops its petals onto the lino like wet paper. This one opened slowly, a red that deepened almost to black at the throat, and the staff nurse from Bay C came round with her torch to see what the fuss was. We stood by the window with the sodium lights coming orange over the car park, and neither of us said anything for a while.

Bed four woke at half past. I told her about the flower. She asked me to bring it over, so I carried the pot across the ward in both hands like a tray of tea, careful of the cannula lines. She touched one petal with her thumb and said her aunt used to tuck a bloom behind her ear before church on Sundays. Then she laughed and said that would cause a scandal on this ward now.

By six the flower had folded in on itself, the way they do, and I wrote the time on the card taped to the pot so the day shift would know. Handover came and went, and the plant sat there looking as though nothing had happened at all. I think about that often: how much can open and close in a single night while the rest of the building keeps its eyes on the monitors.