Fine line black and grey daisy outlines tattooed on the inner wrist, with a gold bracelet worn just above them.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Three daisies on the wrist

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of three daisy outlines of different sizes clustered on the inner wrist, with the largest in the centre and smaller flowers at either side. The thin, single-weight linework is dark grey-brown with light shading in the petals and dark centres. A gold patterned bangle sits above the tattoo and a hand with pale pink nails rests across the top of the frame against a tiled background.

Fine line Botanical Hand Daisy Flower

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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

Sit down, sit down, the barrier isn't going anywhere and neither am I, not at my age. You want the daisies? Everybody wants the daisies. There was a wire fence running over the top of Coldharbour pass, strung back when the two valleys still couldn't agree whose sheep were whose, and right on that wire, where the grass gave up, three daisies came up in a row that nobody had planted.

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The biggest one sat dead centre on the wire, its roots on the east side and its face tipped west, as if it were listening for something. Her two small sisters grew at her elbows, one on each bank, and neither was allowed across. Every market day a postwoman called Ruth Adair walked up with a satchel, and every market day the big daisy turned its head to watch her come, the way a dog does for a known whistle. Ruth carried letters from the east village to the west, folded small and tucked under a flat stone at the wire's foot, and the daisy kept the stone company until someone collected.

Then the clipboard men came, measuring the fence and writing things down, and the stone was moved to a crate in a shed, and for a whole winter nothing went under it. The east daisy wilted first. Then the west one. The big one stayed up, though her petals were grey at the tips. Come spring, a boy called Anton Vell climbed the wire with his pockets full of stones and found a single envelope jammed in the mud beneath the centre flower, addressed in Ruth's careful hand to a mother he'd never met. It had been waiting. The daisy had been holding it there the whole time, and she was still holding it when he pulled it free.

The letter's inside, I'm told, was just one line about rain. But Anton walked it over himself, and he never once asked the daisy for anything, and that, my love, is why she's still up there, dropping her seeds on whichever side of the wire the wind pleases.