Small black fine line daisy with a single leaf tattooed on the inner wrist and forearm of a person with black nail polish.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small daisy on the inner wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small daisy with a rounded centre and five petals sits on a thin black stem with one leaf, drawn in fine, even linework. The tattoo is in solid black ink on pale skin, with the hand raised at the top of the frame and a dark top visible below. The composition is close and centred on the wrist, with the tattoo as the clear focus.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Daisy Flower Stem Leaf Wrist

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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

The fleet of Hollin Bay came home short that October, four boats out of eleven, and the women stood on the shingle counting hulls as if the sea might have miscounted. Old Mother Dunnock said the water had taken its tithe and would be content now. Nobody believed her, but nobody argued either.

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Her grandson Eli, nine years old and unable to sit still through a sermon, went down to the slip each morning with a whelk shell and drew in the wet sand. He drew one flower every time: a round middle, five petals, and a thin stalk with a single leaf hung off it like a hand. When his aunt asked why, he said the sea reads what it is shown, and it had been shown nothing but nets and grief all autumn.

The Margery came in on the third tide after the gale, riding low, with her cousin Jonah at the tiller and no one else aboard. Jonah said there had been a grey woman standing on the swell beside the far buoy, asking politely for a flower. He had none to give her, so she had let him go. He said it without looking at anyone, and he did not go out again that winter.

Eli ran down the shingle with a pot of cuttlefish ink and painted the daisy small on the Margery's bow, the stalk running down past the waterline. The next spring the fleet went out with a flower on every bow, and the women counted hulls and found them all there. Mother Dunnock said nothing, but she kept the whelk shell on her windowsill, and the sand at the slip stayed soft for years where the boy had drawn.