Three people hold hands showing fine line black flower tattoos on their wrists, a sprig with buds on the left, a daisy-like bloom in the centre and a larger blossom on the right.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three botanical flower tattoos on wrists

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

Three wrists are shown side by side, each with a small black botanical tattoo: a sprig with buds on the left, a daisy-like flower with a single stem line in the centre, and a larger open blossom on the right. The linework is thin and delicate, with light shading only in places. The tattoos are in black ink against natural skin, and the close framing keeps all three designs in view.

Fine line Botanical Forearm Flower Sprig Bud Daisy Blossom Stem 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 wheel at Bramley Colliery stopped on a Tuesday, and by Friday the whole of Shale Row knew what it meant. You walked up the cinder path with Nell and Ada, the three of you carrying the same question like a sack of coal nobody wanted. Nell had a biscuit tin of pressed flowers from her gran's back wall. Ada had a ledger of what the Co-op would still put on tick.

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Ada was the one who said it first. Someone at the Welfare knew a man coming over from Mansfield who did ink in the back room of a barber's, two pounds for a small piece if you didn't mind the sting. Nobody asked what you wanted to be remembered for. You each chose from the tin. Nell took the sprig with its little buds, because her gran said it was the first thing to push up after a hard winter. Ada took the daisy with its single stalk drawn straight down like a pencil line, because she said it looked pulled up by the root and didn't mind.

The needle hummed for an hour. The man from Mansfield told a joke about his mother's teeth and kept wiping his hands on a towel printed with ducks. You picked the blossom, the wide open one, the flower that dropped off the tree at the bottom of Shale Row every April until the council cut it down for the bypass. When he wiped the last of the ink away, the three of you held your wrists together under the bare bulb, and nobody said anything for a long time.

Years later the pit was flats and a cycle path, and you still couldn't say which of the three of you had been the brave one. The blossom came out sharpest. Every April the tree on the bypass verge still drops its petals onto the tarmac, and you still stop to pick one up, the way you always meant to.